Dangerous Territory
by Quincetale
Summary: Set at the dawn of the 20th century, Christine is a headstrong girl who prefers the company of books and nature to men; Erik is a government asset with a secretive past. On the adventure of a lifetime in the Caribbean, she is accidentally imperiled by her father's actions. Can Erik find and bring her home safely while winning her affection or are they doomed from the very first?
1. Prologue: The Rambler

**A/N: This is an original, alternate universe tale set at the turn of the twentieth century. Full of action, adventure, danger and romance, it's a spy-thriller of sorts with some Susan Kay references sprinkled in. All main characters are PotO-based and it's (naturally) an E/C pairing; being an AU story I had some leeway with regards to their backgrounds and portrayals but I tried to stay as in-character as possible.**

 **Erik is of course himself—biting sarcasm included—he is hiding from an unfortunate past and its associated secrets. His life is consumed by his work as a part of a fledgling unit of British foreign intelligence. He has been a lone wolf from a tender age and has no desire to change his methods for any reason or anyone.**

 **Christine is spirited, driven, and no-nonsense - although she comes across as uptight and dour. She's trying to be an educated, independent woman back when there really wasn't such a thing and takes exception to relying on a man. Her father (still alive) is self-made man and widower who dotes upon her, encouraging all intellectual pursuits. A love of academics, thorough education and sheltered existence has lent her an inflated ego. As a result her personality clashes magnificently with Erik's when they are unexpectedly thrown together.**

 **As for Raoul, he will not feature prominently in this story; his function is that of an older brother figure to Christine. There is absolutely no romance between them.**

 **The story is rated M for the later chapters but will edge more towards T for the most part - however, it does contain explicit language and several mature themes including mentions of abuse, sexual violence, and torture.**

 **Hopefully you guys will find it an interesting read.**

 ***I don't own any of the PotO characters, in case you didn't know already.**

* * *

 **Tehran - Summer 1889**

As the man rode down the city's narrow streets he could not help but scowl in disgust while attempting to guide his horse around the blasted vendor stalls and hordes of people. He had been in Persia as a translator for a year now - still he found its capitol filthy and longed for the day when he could return to England, to his comfortable townhouse in Marylebone where resided his lovely cook and all of her delectable dishes. The very thought made his stomach clench painfully; he could not recall the last time he had decent fare or a proper cup of tea.

True, Victorian London was overcrowded and rife with social problems but one could at least keep to the more respectable areas - out of sight, out of mind so to speak. Here the poor were everywhere, a constant reminder of humanity's exile from Eden.

It was indeed the height of cruelty that God's finest creations were made to suffer so. Difference of faith and culture aside, no one deserved such a bleak fate. He tried to keep his eyes ahead but could not prevent the occasional glance: men missing limbs on makeshift crutches hoping to sell their wares; the elderly, delusions spilling from their decaying mouths, wondering why they were made to linger amongst the living; women, battered and broken, selling any part of themselves for a morsel; children, squalid little skeletons, lay at their mothers' feet and sometimes quite alone, long-since abandoned in the hope that death would come swiftly.

Once again he was grateful for the keffiyeh shielding his face as he wept.

This was one of the circles of hell, of that he was convinced. Each time he was made to pass through it his spirit dimmed a bit more, a dying star fading away. At last he reached the courtyard of the British Mission and, dismounting, breathed a sigh of relief. A boy was by his side in an instant, his black eyes roaming over the beast with reverent approval as he took the reins.

"Beaut-i-ful an-i-mal, sir." he said in heavily-accented English, drawing out every syllable for clarity.

The man murmured a hasty gramercy in Persian and started towards the building only to halt mid-step. Perhaps it was the wretchedness he had just witnessed or that he had taken a liking to this lad, who always ensured his horse was well looked-after—or maybe still it was his need for absolution after a fortnight spent in sin—but he turned round and pressed a handful of coins into the boy's grubby palm. His action won him a low whistle of astonishment and he hurried away before anything could be said on the matter. Displays of emotion had always left him discomfited - a likely explanation for his enduring bachelorhood.

His stride did not falter until he reached his destination: a worn wooden door on the second level. Knocking, he was granted immediate entry and came to stand in front of a polished desk that was quite out of place in the otherwise shabby, dust-covered office - a small tast of luxury amidst squalor, he surmised. Then, everybody had his own method of coping. He would certainly go mad if he had to spend a great amount of time in Tehran or any part of this bloody country. A year had proven challenge enough, he had not the foggiest idea how his countrymen withstood it. Perchance that was why there was a new ambassador every few years.

He removed his headdress and cleared his throat impatient to deliver his piece and retire to his flat so that he might soothe his aching body with a bath. Yes, after a scorching, gritty day in the saddle a bath was most definitely in order. Thankfully Captain Bertie Clarkson was not one for needless banter and looked up from his papers forthwith.

"Why, if it isn't old Edgar Hill. What a pleasure to see you, dear chap! Sit down, please, sit down! Would you care for a tot of brandy?" Clarkson gestured to a handsome lead glass decanter, the only other piece of finery in the room.

Hill received the snifter graciously. The initial taste of spirits on his tongue was bliss, he swore angels parted the heavens with their song to ring in his rapture. Fine brandy, port, and sherry cobblers were on the list of items most missed during his work in Persia. Once he was settled the Captain cut directly to the heart of it.

"I trust your stay in the Shah's palace was a pleasant one? Hally said you were an immeasurable asset." Things could not have unfolded more favorably. Soon he would be enjoying a leisurely evening, his first in an eternity.

"Yes, court life is ah, interesting to say the least. Lord Halston was absolutely enamored and made ample use of my skills, I barely had a chance to catch a breath."

"AHA! How immensely typical of old Hally, eager as a schoolboy! That enthusiasm of his is what makes him such a crack chargé d'affaires." His next words were issued low, furtive, "And what of your other business, were you able to look into the matter?"

"I was, in fact - although, finding time away from Lord Halston was not easy."

"I figured as much. If he had his way he would carry on day and night without a wink of sleep. Nevertheless, I am rather glad you've managed. Tell me, are the legends founded in truth or are they simply village lore?" His impressive moustache practically twitched with anticipation. Clearly he had expended many an hour of contemplation over the veracity of these claims.

Edgar took a methodical pull of brandy, savoring its aroma and flavor. It was the closest he had come to sampling ambrosia.

"The rumors are no fabrication."

"Good Lord, what manner of answer is that, old boy? Were you any more vague you could enter politics!" He chuckled at his own joke, leaning over his desk, eyes wild.

"What is it that you wish to know, sir?" Edgar rejoined calmly. The spectacle was an amusing one, this staunch military man breathlessly awaiting a tale stranger than fiction.

There was an incredulous splutter. "You are well-aware of what I desire to know! What they've said, is it true, the fearful whispers in the gloom, the hushed mutterings of death? Is he real, the one they call the Angel of Doom?"

Images, unspeakable sights and fantastical illusions from the past two weeks flashed through his memory. So authentic he could nearly reach out and touch them. His expression darkened ominously.

"Oh, yes, quite real, and so much more than the stories; he surpasses even the most fantastical anecdote. I've not seen anything comparable within the realm of reality or imagination." The last sounded trite, absurd. He was a respectable scholar not some misguided peddler of cheap penny dreadful twaddle. Anyone who knew him would have believed him a loon for such sentiment; they would shake their heads and say that the desert heat had finally turned poor Professor Hill daft. Yet he had seen things, things that violated the natural order. Seen not concocted.

—and now he could not unsee.

"Much more did you say?" Hill struggled to construct a fitting explanation, a difficult endeavor.

"This—" Lord, he was not certain if the word 'man' was applicable and settled instead for an ambiguous descriptor, "...being is not merely a court assassin, he's an artist, composer, magician, inventor, architect, a wonder: Angel and devil fused into one and hidden behind a mask white as bone. He wears not the cowl of Death but the attire of a gentleman, a demon cloaked as an angel. His voice, my God, he can do extraordinary things with it, as if it were a weapon the same as any sword or pistol. It is both terror and beauty, supernatural, sublime. I consider myself a man of logic foremost, sir; I was an engineer with the army before I became a professor of linguistics. I do not hold with spirits, daemons, animism or peasant superstitions but this entity is—"

"Sui generis?" came the helpful suggestion.

Captain Clarkson was collected, the marked opposite from his stunned, affected companion. On the contrary there was a sort of grim validation etched onto his features as if a physician had just confirmed a suspected diagnosis. Surely he did not have prior knowledge of this creature. Else why would he have had need to send a cantankerous old man on a mission of reconnaissance? And, yet his air of nonchalance spoke for itself. The stodgiest, most hackneyed lecturer would have been intrigued by such a description, let alone the masses. His colleagues at Oxford would have been fascinated, the inquisitive, callow pupil that resided at the core of every intellectual stoked. Good God, even those with a specialty in maths would be piqued and they were the very definition of prosaic.

There was something amiss, a nagging intuition of secrets lurking like an iceberg beneath the surface. He was abruptly struck with the impression that he had been played for an unwitting pawn in some larger scheme. The sensation was far from pleasant.

"You were already aware of him, this 'Angel of Doom'? May I ask, then, why you required my aid?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, but I knew of hearsay and whispers. What I needed—and what you have so kindly provided—was proof and for that I am tremendously obliged." Clarkson paused, a cheerful glint in his eye, "Say, Hill, how would you like to return to London?"

He stared agape, a fish out of water.

What madness was this?

It took Hill a moment to gather his wits and another before surprise ebbed enough to allow speech. Shock quickly morphed into irritation. On a good day he had no tolerance for needlessly rhetorical questions but after hours spent on horseback baking in the sun he had even less so. Of course he wanted to return, what an asinine query! What Englishman in his right mind wished to stay in this barbarous land with its primitive laws and debauched customs?

"I ... I should like it very much indeed." A frown creased his already lined face, "Do you ask to bait and tease me?"

"Not at all! You have that charming residence in Westminster, do you not?"

"Marylebone. A townhouse on Baker Street."

"How delightful! I do so enjoy that part of London, you know, the epicenter of theatre and the arts. I am somewhat of a connoisseur of opera myself. At any rate, you have done me a great service. I am in your debt and it occurs to me that the best recompense would be to send you home. Unless you'd prefer some other reward?"

A second instance found Hill flabbergasted, his swimming, swirling head limited to the most basic of responses.

"No, sir."

"Excellent! It is settled then! There is a steamer departing from Mazandaran the Saturday next, I shall book you passage." The Captain rose and extended his hand indicating the meeting had concluded.

A dream made real, that's what it was. It was everything he had hoped for since stepping off the first bloody ship - but also an impossibility upon further consideration. What of his job, what of Lord Halston? If it had been as elementary as tendering his resignation he would have been home eleven months ago. Reluctantly, disheartened, he bit back his giddiness.

"With all due respect, sir, how is this possible? A translator is requisite for the ambassador and his staff."

"Oh, do not trouble yourself over that, my good fellow! I've secured both the necessary permission and a replacement, one with a connection to the palace no less. The situation is all well in hand. Go, dear chap, enjoy a production at Covent Garden for my sake."

Finally Edgar stood and shook the Captain's hand, shook it with such gusto he worried his arm might drop off. The lure of a bath called to him like a siren. He hesitated at the door, a final thought, no more than a niggling curiosity persisted - his mood buoyed and bright he decided to ask.

"Forgive me, sir, but why the vested interest in this court assassin? He is incredibly dangerous, the prudent course would be to stay far away."

"Perhaps I lack your wisdom, professor." Clarkson grinned broadly, "As for my interest, my business is entirely my own and that of my superiors. You may rest assured that all aforementioned motivations are aboveboard." Deciding it foolish to probe further and risk a rescission of the charitable gift he nodded and left it there. Best not pry, it was no longer his concern. Besides, what right did he, a translator, have to care?

"Very good, sir. You have my eternal thanks for the brandy and everything else. I apologize for my intrusion."

"Nonsense! I'm sure you meant no harm by it. Have a safe journey and God-speed, Hill."

"Thank you again, Captain."

 **o o o**

Riding back to his leased flat Hill was unable to stem the queer miasma of disappointment that arose within him; it should have been elation. After all, he was going home. Never had he imagined when he awoke this morning that he would be thusly blessed, not in a million years. Maybe he just required time to adjust and accept - yes, that had to be the problem. What other cause could explain his conflicting feelings?

Time was the remedy for all things.

He would revisit the subject after a long soak - or, better still, never again.

Yet, as he lay in bed that night he could not banish the thought. Miles and miles from the palace the Angel of Doom continued to haunt him. Whenever he attempted to close his eyes he was met with dazzling phantasms and scenes of violence, both equally unsettling. Had it not been folly he might have drawn a comparison to a guilty conscience but the juxtaposition was preposterous, he had no cause to feel remorse. Absolutely nil, his inner voice concurred. Even so, he couldn't overlook the sense of betrayal eating away at his innards like moths trapped within a wardrobe. What a ridiculous notion! He scoffed; he had crossed nobody and assuredly not that thrice-damned brute.

—assuming one could play Judas to a veritable monster.

All he had done was affirm the existence of a myth and, really, anybody could have done as much - and eventually would have. So what cause for guilt had he?

An involuntary shudder swept through him; tonight he had been sure to lock his windows and doors, though he was heedless as to why. Presumably a creature of such incomprehensible skill could pick a standard lock within seconds, that was if he didn't drop from the ceiling like a bat or appear in a cloud acrid smoke. He laughed at those last two.

"Be gone! Cease your tormenting, I've committed no treason against you. Angels do not plague mortals, even if they are devils in disguise." Now he was shouting nonsense into an empty room. Maybe the desert had gotten to him.

Ah, but I am the son of the morning, the one they called Lucifer, cast from heaven. My wings have burnt and withered, my soul is charred blacker than ink, my beauty is forever twisted and marred - angel I am no longer. I am hideous, a demon more horrible than any can bear. Monster, creature, beast, devil: none of these paltry words do me justice. You will discover this for yourself when you join me in my underground realm, for it is you who has henceforth sealed my tragic fate.

The response blew forth on an exhale of wind, each word formed by creaking and rattles. Alarmed, he threw back the covers glancing frantically about the room and saw nothing, or more specifically no one. He was alone and this—

This was doubtlessly a hallucination of an exhausted brain, was it not? He was torn on the subject, rationale and emotion at war. One fact became apparent, sleep would not come willingly tonight.

"What have I done?" Edgar Hill whispered into nothingness, positive he could not begin to fathom the answer to that question but filled with dread nonetheless.


	2. Full of Vexation Come I, With Complaint

**A/N: Here comes the first chapter, bringing us thirteen years into the future. It's a little dark and a lot heavy. For those readers evidently not reviewing (ahem) because of the conspicuous lack of beloved characters, wait no longer. This story is meant to be more fast-paced than my other one so expect things to happen quickly.**

 **Once again any feedback is _very_ welcome, as are questions!**

* * *

 **London - April 1902**

The man stroked his mustache absentmindedly as he read, never had he anticipated just how engrossing this novel would prove. He continued in this vein for some time until his eyelids began to droop with the weight of impending slumber. Yawning, he hazarded a glance at the clock on the mantle and immediately rose from his chair with a muttered foreign oath rumbling off his tongue; the nacre face proudly announced it was nearly two in the morning. So it was to be _another_ sleepless night, was it? Perhaps in the future he should refrain from cracking open new books so late in the evening.

Downing his glass of now tepid tea in one swift gulp, he placed the copy of Bram Stoker's, _Dracula_ upon the table and set off towards his bedroom. He opened the door, pausing before crossing the threshold; his mind seemed frozen, paralyzed by a hesitance to walk into blackness. A fear of darkness was a uniquely human construction, he mused, no animal cowered in the face of nighttime. Not that he had ever been prone to such things either, but after his latest choice of reading material he could scarcely help the twinge of reluctance. Nadir Khan was not the sort of fool to believe in apparitions, vampires, or other dark creatures of folklore. His time in the Shah's palace had taught him that such tales were wholly unnecessary; plain, living, breathing men were the true monsters. Shaking his head, he crammed down his unease and entered.

"Steady on, old boy, it's not as if Count Dracula is lurking in the gloom." he reassured himself with a chuckle, switching the lamp on.

"Are you so sure of that?" spoke a voice from the shadows.

Nadir jumped so high he was positive his head smacked the ceiling. Curse that insufferable maniac and his penchant for late night visits! He clawed at his chest in a fruitless effort to calm his overwrought lungs; Erik would doubtlessly lead him to an early grave. It was a wonder his heart hadn't given out yet. In fact, the masked man had been the impetus behind his habit of turning on the lights before walking into a room; a result of countless similar surprises (all _quite_ as unpleasant and some more so) over the years.

His guest may not have been one of the undead, but he was just as unwelcome in the wee hours of the morning. Pondering the subject, the title character of Stoker's novel _might_ make a more favorable companion than Erik Grey. Dracula was, at the very least, _polite_. _Well_ , for the most part.

At last his visitor stepped into the dim lamplight. Tall and well-built, with raven hair and eyes hovering between blue and grey, and dressed in impeccably-tailored dark trousers and matching waistcoat, the man indeed bore a chilling resemblance to the fictional Count, save for the black bandit's mask obscuring the former's face from cheek to forehead. The comparison did not end with regards to physical appearance. Like Dracula, Erik was man of extraordinary prowess including an innate mastery of illusion, hypnotism, and talent for 'vanishing'; he was every bit as deadly, possessing a temper twice as frightening.

Warrior, musician, chemist, engineer and genius in virtually every other discipline, nothing seemed out of his grasp. It was alarming, almost supernatural. And then there was his voice... Like that of a siren but more powerful, _more alluring_ , able to entrance man, woman, child, and beast alike. An instrument in every sense of the word, he could use it for purposes either marvellous or nefarious and every conceivable thing in between.

 _Oh yes_ , the two of them could be brothers separated by time. Though he was uncertain whether or not his friend's eyes turned red with rage (he wouldn't be surprised if they did).

"As convincing an imitation of _la demoiselle en détresse_ as that shriek was, you _are_ aware that Dracula's preferred victims were women, yes? Were he here it would have done nothing to repel him. I believe garlic, a branch of prickly rose, or holy water make much more effective apotropaics."

Heart still drumming a frantic rhythm and hour growing ever later, Nadir had little patience for his associate's customary dry barbs. He hadn't the slightest idea why tonight merited a social call. Especially given he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Erik for the better part of three months. "Can you blame me for 'shrieking' as you call it? You damn near gave me an apoplexy! May I ask to what I owe the pleasure, Erik?"

"Losing our mind in our dotage, are we daroga? It was _you_ who sent for me, nevertheless." He situated himself in the room's only chair, resting his foot on the opposite knee and bringing his long fingers together into a steeple; the display miffed the Persian greatly for whatever reason.

"And are your sharp eyes withering with time? It was Dicky who sent for you, not I. Surely you can discern the difference in signatures, no matter how awful his hand is."

"Dicky, is it now? You two make a pretty pair; a bumbling lord and his loyal, little spaniel come to mind." Erik sneered, "I am perfectly aware of _who_ summoned me, however it was sudden and I am not one for surprises. Seeing as you are Monthall's lap dog, I thought to first gather information from you so I do not walk in blind."

"At two in the morning?" came the skeptical return.

"There's no time like the present. _After all_ , they say a thousand unforeseen circumstances may interrupt you at a future time."

"So you trespass in my home to quote _what_ ... Donne at me?"

"Not even remotely close, daroga, tsk tsk. It appears, literary scholar you are _not._ The name you were looking for was John _Trusler_."

The Persian's resultant glare was almost worthy of the one at whom it was directed. Were he paying close attention, Erik might have been pleased by the scathing look's quality. No longer wishing to participate in this pointless little exercise, he aimed straight for the heart of the matter; the sooner it was over, the sooner he could retire. "How did you get into my room?"

Erik rolled his eyes, examining his nail beds indolently. "You insult me. I mastered lock picking before my sixth summer and scaling walls by my seventh; by my eighth year, I would disappear for the entire night and none would be the wiser."

"Ah. I see you were _always_ destined for greatness then." the Persian retorted acerbically, leaning against the bed post.

" _Naturally._ Would you have ever thought otherwise? Although my inclination for burgling is not what has brought me here tonight."

"Are you still on mandated leave?"

There was a huff of annoyance, "Were I not, daroga, ask yourself if I would be sitting here communing with an imbecile. I see you are ever astute as always; it's a _small_ wonder you are no longer a constable. _Why_ , I'd wager you might even make detective if you joined Scotland Yard!"

Nadir sighed. _Allah, give me strength_ , he implored (a frequent entreaty whenever dealing with Erik). "I was the chief of police if you remember correctly, or have you forgotten the words we once exchanged in Persia?"

Some semblance of a smile graced Erik's lips, "How could I? They were the highlight of my misspent youth."

Another deep exhale; he could feel the stirrings of a migraine lapping at his temples. "What have you come here for, Erik?"

"I want to know why Monthall has ordained a meeting. I've not seen nor spoken to anyone for months until I received the telegram this afternoon. On the contrary, you have suffered no such lapse in information and, as I have said, I've no desire to be caught unawares. _So_ , tell me... has he finally decided to put the mad dog down or perhaps muzzle it and lock it away in the Tower of London?"

"You know I couldn't discuss this with you, Erik, even _if_ I knew Dicky's intent. I'm sorry I cannot help you."

The masked man gave a nonplussed shrug, seemingly unaffected by the letdown. "For a former policeman, you are a truly abysmal liar. I was hoping other _methods_ of extraction would be unnecessary; you've caught me without my usual tools, you see. No matter, I'm nothing if not creative." His eyes swept the room casually, "I am quite sure I can find something to the proper effect."

"Going to torture me then?" Nadir asked bluntly, accustomed to such threats.

"I would prefer not to, I am rather fond of this shirt as it were and would hate to stain it."

"Oh, very well... Not that I am folding, mind you! I would just care to get the barest hour of sleep, is all. _Which_ I can only do once you leave. You are damned impossible, you know."

Erik smirked, reclining in the chair, "But, _of course_. It's one of my more _appealing_ traits, I daresay."

"So you would believe..." the Persian muttered. "I do not know a great deal, only that Dicky has an assignment for you. Something involving a retrieval and delivery operation of sorts. Whatever it was came up precipitously and has been kept quiet." He hoped this explanation would suffice. It was, in fact, the truth but whether or not the other man believed it was anybody's guess. The aforementioned was a suspicious by nature, if his response was deemed unsatisfactory it would be a very long night. Fortunately, luck appeared to be on his side.

"Ah, so he wishes me to play the faithful pup and deliver his birds to hand then? _Me!_ His most skilled asset made to fetch like a common cur. It's undignified, egregious!" The statement was issued in a low, bitter snarl.

"I would tread more carefully, Erik. You—"

"Tread more carefully?!" Erik was standing over him now, undiluted venom burning in his eyes. Rather than glowing crimson, his irises danced like blue flames. Fierce, merciless: able to melt flesh and bone with ease. A height discrepancy of a few inches stretched inexplicably into feet, rendering him insignificant and powerless in the face of a mightier being. For the first time in a long while, fear trickled down his spine.

Still it was not enough to strike him dumb (he had been subjected to worse) and so he persisted rationally, "Yes, caution would be best after what happened with—" No sooner had he spoken than an eerie charge crackled to life within the room. It tickled his skin making each hair stand on end. He could feel it tingling inside his blood, a thrumming, extant current of energy, harmless unless it surged and shocked him fatally. Without warning he was seized by the lapels of his dressing robe and lifted off the ground.

" _Say it._ " Erik hissed, his tone a blatant threat, a dare. In that moment he saw not a savage madman but a broken wretch who had lost everything. Reputation and accomplishments were the only things left in which he could take any sense of pride; the violent reaction was understandable.

"Your quarrel is not with me, my friend. I would appreciate it if you would let me down." he said solemnly.

Immediately Erik released him and, in the scant seconds it took for Nadir to rearrange his attire, was gone. Disappearing into the night like a ghost. His friend had been altered significantly within the past year. Gone was the light from his eyes and the fire in his spirit. He was a shell of a man after the tragedy that had befallen him. Strange, how one could be touched by hundreds of misfortunes throughout life but toppled by only one. It was the way of things, he supposed. The unfair, twisted way of the world. Despite acknowledgement of such futility, Nadir mumbled a prayer to Allah before at last sliding into bed.

 **o o o**

Some hours later, on the very next morning, Erik stood facing the office door. It leered at him, a wooden executioner scrutinizing its victim for weakness. His expression was stoic, measured; he would afford it no such satisfaction nor power over him. He would meet his fate as should a proper Englishman with an unflappable certitude and dignity.

His resolve memorialized in stone, he raised his fist and rapped upon the oak. There was naught that could shake him now, _come what may_. Though he was equipped with a basic conception of the purpose behind these summons, even his outrageously clever mind could not contrive any further details. The previous night's visit to the daroga had not proven as fruitful as he would have liked. But, _che sera, sera_ as it were. It was far too late to turn back, even if he had been one possessed of a caitiff's disposition.

Alas, a coward he had never been.

A muffled voice bade him enter and he obeyed tout de suite. Those flitting thoughts of punishments, dismissals, and unpleasant assignments crumbling away in his swiftness of stride. Perhaps they had decided his transgressions demanded repayment in the form of a limb or head; perhaps he would be sent into exile in some sweltering colonial cesspit, doomed to live out his miserable days amidst insects and cholera; or perhaps he would be relegated to those tasks which no agent envies, wiping dribble off the chins of foreign diplomats whilst eavesdropping on their conversations. Three ghastly branches of future existence notwithstanding, he honestly could not bring himself to be bothered.

Not a year ago he had lost a part of himself forever. Never would he be whole again, _that_ was indisputable fact. For one whom had avoided any sort of intimacy with fierce doggedness once he was old enough to see its frivolity, it wounded deeply; for a man whom had eschewed family and camaraderie for most of his life, it dealt a mortal blow. Worse still was the regret that pierced his flesh like hundreds upon hundreds of miniature living quills, evermore assailing him with a chorus of: _'why did you wait so long to know your own flesh and blood? Fool!'_ Constant torment. It's what he had lived second-by-second, minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, and day-by-miserable-bloody-day. The hellish choir within him had fanned the flames of revenge, urging and cajoling until he snapped.

Revenge had been meted out, _oh yes_. He supposed it had initially brought some joy but the petals of peacefulness that had fallen over his damaged soul were swept away by the first gust of wind. At that moment he realized that vengeance was only a fragile, temporal thing. So he was left, more hollow, less human. Nothing there was left to lose. Let him be locked in the deepest dungeon, drawn and quartered, or packed off to some festering backwater colony, he no longer cared what became of him.

Thoroughly resigned to the matter, he came to stand in front of the desk, removing his hat not in conscientious respect but out of wearied apathy, and waited.

The man behind the desk held up his finger for pause as he finished a mess of inked dashes, loops, and squiggles and folded it without giving it time to dry. Then, it did not much matter, Richard Monthall always had atrocious penmanship. Whatever he penned to paper would ostensibly be an unintelligible mass, smudged or not.

"Ah, I've been expecting you, Mr Grey. Do sit down, please! It's already enough to look up when we're both standing, were you to remain so, my neck would surely snap." He chuckled. With a wave, he indicated vaguely to the front of his desk. Erik surveyed the set of club chairs before selecting the more comfortable looking one. Monthall concluded cleaning his spectacles with his handkerchief and looked up calmly, regarding his guest with the mien of inscrutability he had developed during his years with Scotland Yard.

It proved quite too much for the younger man to tolerate. Erik had not come here only to loiter about. If he was to be chastened or dismissed, he wanted to simply have done with it. "Why have I been summoned, _sir_?" He attempted to modulate his impatience of tone by tucking it behind a veil of respect.

"Ever so unflinchingly direct! I've always admired you the more for it, my boy. It has been a spell, hasn't it? Nearly three months, yes. May I ask what you have taken to doing in your hiatus, hobbies and the like?"

More idle banter. Erik gritted his teeth, forcing composure. "I've been restoring a dilapidated Jacobean country house I purchased; burned down and since forgotten. It needs to be almost fully rebuilt."

Monthall's eyes widened as a large grin spread over his face. "Have you really? Well, that is absolutely capital!" He must have caught the look in Erik's eyes, for he quickly changed tack, "At any rate, there is no need to look so grim. I have not requested your presence for pleasantries or to deliver reprimand. Instead I meant to ask you what you know of a Mr Gustave Daaé. His name is familiar to you, I trust?"

A wholly unanticipated question to be sure. One that for some reason (he failed to see how) escaped being categorized as aimless chitchat. Erik examined the other man for some indication of an answer and found none.

"I've heard it mentioned in passing, however I am admittedly ignorant on the subject. I am vaguely aware that he is in the shipping industry but that is the extent of my knowledge." Suddenly the daroga's words from last night jutted out in flagrant warning: _'Dicky has an assignment for you. Something involving a retrieval and delivery operation of sorts'_. Could this be the plan, asking him to bring back some lost, perhaps valuable, cargo?

If so it was a fate worse than being clapped in irons. Such a mundane task would be torturous to any being of reasonable intelligence but for Erik it would prove no less than hell, a cruel sanction. He was positive Monthall knew as much. Maybe there would be a choice offered: prison or errand. There was no question as to which option he would choose; he had survived Persia, British prisons were a holiday in Cannes by comparison.

"You are correct about his shipping franchise, he has amassed a sizeable fortune in his endeavors. Emigrated from Bermuda as a lad and started from naught but a few ageing, leaking steamers. A self-made man in every sense, but true to his modest beginnings unlike those others who manage to rise above their circumstances. Gustave Daaé has revitalized several port towns, which without his business would have remained lawless, gin-soaked gutters. He holds a seat in the House of Commons, no doubt elected for the aforementioned generosity. He is a very humble man, driven by a rather noble goal of order and equality, and was instrumental in the passage of the Judicature Acts to reorganize the legal system. As you can well imagine he has made some notorious enemies, including several crime families who had previously taken advantage of a divided system. We have it on good authority that both he and his family are now in danger of immediate retribution."

"This is all a rather intriguing tale, sir. I've no intention of sounding ... _impertinent_ but why have you called me here to discuss some disillusioned, sentimental fool with a foot in politics?"

Therein followed a short respite of silence, his sense of foreboding multiplying with each gentle lurch of the clock's hands. It was as though the bars of a great cage were hemming him in, sliding closer and closer. Like a wild animal he was cornered, soon his cool demeanor would crack.

"Not at all, not at all! I am glad you've asked, my boy. You must have thought me a mad old rambler but I was just getting to it. Daaé's son, Christopher, departed for the Caribbean five days ago on an expedition with some esteemed naturalist or another. Unfortunately the threats against his father came after the lad was already steaming across the Atlantic. According to our intelligence, the boy is an extremely likely target in a kidnapping attempt. Naturally, it would be next to impossible to ensure his safety halfway around the world."

"Unfortunate, _truly_ , but I fail to see my role in the matter." The alarm bells in his head were blaring now, wailing in a dreadful, droning racket. He did not want to hear the reply that was sure to come.

"I am asking you to locate the boy, retrieve him, and return him to his father."

All control and impassivity broke free of its bearing. At once Erik jumped up, palms flat against the desk, shaking with rage. Here was an insult among insults! _Him?_ The most priceless asset to foreign intelligence— _he_ who spoke damn near every language, who could infiltrate any operation, who was a master of combat armed or not, who never once failed or botched an operation, who had the gall to do whatever necessary, who had given the best years of his life to Monthall's damn enterprise—forced to traipse across the globe playing nursemaid to some pampered milksop.

It was an outrage, _an atrocity_! More offensive than an amateur attempting one of Verdi's arias, utter condemnation.

"So _this_ is what years of service to the Crown has bought me, Richard, a position as a glorified nanny? Forgive me if I am both decidedly underwhelmed and ungrateful." he spat viciously, nails biting into the desk.

His superior was on his feet with the horrendous scuffle of wood-on-wood. Though shorter and older than Erik, he still cut a rather intimidating figure when angered and had no intention of stepping down. "Now, _see here,_ Grey! Not a soul in this organization, least of all myself, harbors any doubts over your skills and efficacy. I will not deny that you are one of the finest men to have ever served, if not _the finest_ , however, what your abilities do _not_ afford is the right to exact a personal vendetta. Put aside your infernal arrogance, boy. After your ridiculous actions, you should be _bloody_ appreciative that you are not rotting in a cell awaiting the noose, much less still apart of this organization; and you should be on damn bent knee that I am considering you for another field assignment!" Monthall sucked a cleansing breath through his teeth, softening his tone, "I've swept up for you, Erik. I did you this favor as a longtime friend and not as your employer, because I understand what it is like to lose someone dear to you. Regardless of what you would say in spiteful conceit, a debt is owed. I am asking you this one thing in repayment when I could conceivably request much more. And I will thank you to never address me in such an insubordinate manner again."

Erik was walloped hard by an overwhelming sense of guilt, striking him repeatedly about the head and chest until he could scarcely breathe. Since earliest childhood he always been aloof, wayward even, and had experienced a fair share of youthful deviance from the path of morality, but he had never sank too deeply into darkness. His first kill was at age sixteen: a rapist with over ten victims, some of them only girls. The filth was hunted down and dispatched with the lasso Erik had been gifted by villagers after ridding them of a pack of man-eating wolves. Death was a drawn out mess of groveling and sobs, there was pleasure in it. When the rat drew his final breath, he felt no pang of remorse as he had done for taking the life of an animal. It was afterwards that he switched prey, hunting not man-eaters but murderers, rapists, and other scourges upon humanity. He had done much the same in Persia when he grew tired of India, taking his blood-lust a bit further with the building of intricate torture devices in which a great many foul criminals met their demise. Despite the Shah's opposition, he had refused to kill wantonly and had paid dearly for his audacity. Still he held true to his odd set of convictions and was unconsumed, at least _not_ until last year...

He could not bring himself to revisit the memory. A blackness had erupted inside of him that day, beginning as a minuscule blot of India ink and slowly bleeding until it had spread to every part of his soul. In spite of the blood staining his hands, he had not become a monster until that day. No longer did he try to stem the tide of malignancy within, there it was all the time, bubbling and oozing like pitch. It possessed him, poisoning all traces of the man he had once been. If his superiors noticed something amiss, they didn't interfere; his work never suffered for it, if anything he became _more_ ruthlessly efficient.

Until three months ago.

The reprisal had been too grisly and serious to ignore. He hadn't attempted to hide his crime and expected an appointment with the gallows or firing squad. Execution promised relief in a way, an escape from the pain and self-loathing. Apparently Monthall did not think him past redemption and placed him on indefinite leave. _'Go into the country,'_ he had said, _'go wherever makes you happiest and find yourself some peace.'  
_

Cowed and thoroughly ashamed (a far from novel sensation), fury yielded to indifference. No words seemed particularly fitting, he was still too proud to reveal he had been affected.

"Very well. When do I leave?"

Monthall sank back into his chair, pulling something from a desk drawer. "Tonight. Everything you will need is here, your train departs within the hour and from there I've booked you passage aboard a steamer. All else is detailed within the provided dossier." He handed Erik a tatty leather folio and hesitated a moment, opening his mouth as if to say something else.

Then, shaking his head, he only muttered, "God-speed, my boy."

* * *

 **Told you guys we were jumping right into things. I'm sure this chapter raises some questions, namely the part about Gustave Daaé's having a _son_. I assure you it was _not_ an error on my part and all will be explained next chapter. **

**Guess you will have to keep on reading to know!**

 **Speaking of the following chapter... Yes, you will see the rest of our gang of characters in it; including an anticipated meeting between a certain two. ;)**

 **Reviews and the like would be lovely.**


	3. The Appeal of Hic Mulier

**A/N: All right, so I got a bit ahead of myself. The anticipated encounter between the delightful stars of this fic is being postponed to chapter 3 (chapter 4 technically). I started writing this scene and just sort of followed where it led me. Then I decided that I gave Erik an entire background chapter of his very own, so why not give Christine one as well? Let me just say I really, really enjoyed writing this chappie right here. With any luck, you guys think it's as good as my ego tells me. ;)**

 **You could always review and share your thoughts, hm?**

 **There** _ **is**_ **a tiny bit of time-jumping within this chapter (days** _ **not**_ **months or years). This starts off about a week or so** _ **before**_ **the previous chapter (remember Gustave's 'son' had left 5 days earlier).**

* * *

Gustave Daaé sat in his study poring over the usual admixture of tedious shipping manifests, contracts, and finances. Nearly any other man in his position would have passed such things straight on to their solicitors and accountants without sparing a single glance. As it was, gentlemen had far _more_ important concerns than running their own business holdings at such an intimate level: shooting, cigars, Clubs, yachting, horses, cards and the like. The monotony was better left to the tedious little people who's job it was to specialize in it. Not that Gustave did not have solicitors, accountants, and others at his disposal—an operation as large as his necessitated the fact—it was more that his enduring work ethic was impossible to switch off. After all, he had built his empire up from the first lime brick and oversaw it from the first house to the completion of the city center.

What purpose was served in deviating at this stage?

Sorting the last papers into their meticulously arranged piles he checked his pocket watch - twenty-five minutes past four. Afternoon tea would be upon him at half past. That left five fleeting minutes. He slipped his coat back on and straightened his tie, not wishing to appear slovenly for his guest, before moving to sit before the fireplace. Not that she cared one jot if he was in his nightshirt or evening dress, her papa was just as dear regardless of whether or not he more closely resembled a vagabond than a gentleman.

 _Ah_ , little Christine: his pride and joy. Gustave could not have been more pleased with the fine young lady she had become, every bit as beautiful and clever as her mamma. He was by no means a vain man and seldom boasted of his incredible fortune in life but his daughter was the one subject guaranteed to make him puff up like a strutting rooster.

As he waited for Mrs Burns to bring in the tea he could not help the melancholy nettling at his heart. Soon simple indulgences like afternoon tea and chats over literature would be but cherished pastimes. Christine was fast approaching her twentieth year and he could no longer delude himself into thinking she was the same small child who had favored tree climbing over French lessons. In short time she would marry and start a household of her own with a husband and pretty children to care for; her old, widowed father would be shuffled to the side but such was the way of the world. The realization did not embitter him; on the contrary he had pulled himself out of the wretched sea of poverty so that she _would_ have the option for a good marriage and promising future.

Though on further introspection, perhaps he needn't dwell on such things presently. His daughter was still far more interested in academics than parties, dresses, or eligible gentlemen. Maybe that was for the better. Christine was his treasure, a flawless, radiant diamond of some rare color, a grand bird of colorful foreign plumage, she was far too precious to squander on just _any_ man.

No, it would have to be a very extraordinary fellow indeed to tempt him into giving away her hand. And love would of course be requisite: true, deep, unfaltering love, like that which he had shared with her mother. He couldn't stand to part with her for any less.

At four thirty on the nose the door swung open to reveal kind, old, plump Mrs Burns with the tray of tea. Regular as always. There was comfort to be had in regularity. Which is why he'd be absolutely dashed when the time came for him to entrust Christine to another. Gustave shifted in the easy chair on which he rested, he knew it was quite unusual for a father to hold such tremendous love for a daughter and if a man did harbor such feelings, they were wisely hidden. Sons were a much more valued commodity, sons were a man's legacy, the continuation of bloodline and title. Yet he would never dream of trading his darling girl for the security bought by a male heir.

"Here we are, sir. I've bought the spongecake you are so fond of from the bakery and of course Mrs Reed has included the lemon tarts Miss Christine fancies so well." Mrs Burns cheerfully announced, cutting him loose from his reverie.

"Very good, very good." Gustave grinned, "Whatever would I do without you and Mrs Reed, Mrs Burns?"

"Whither away in your study whilst waiting for your tea, I should think, sir."

He chuckled, plucking a fat currant scone off the plate. In addition to the spongecake, they were his favorite. "Quite likely. Say, where _is_ my daughter?"

"Right here, papa." a bright voice called from the doorway.

"I'll be taking my leave then, sir."

Christine glided into the room with the grace she had inherited from her mother as the housekeeper left. The child looked so like his dear, late Charlotte with her chestnut curls and skin the color of cream, but her eyes were his own: a rich brown, the color of chocolates or coffee. Looking over her slender, elegant figure there was no way he could grasp onto the fever dream of every father: that his little girl would remain just so forever. There was no denying that Christine had bloomed into a lovely young woman.

"Good afternoon."

"Yes, it is, now that you have _at last_ decided to join me. You would have left your poor papa to starve whilst you were off gallivanting Lord knows where? For shame, child."

A small frown furrowed her brow, "I was not terribly late, was I?"

"No, of course not. I was just having fun, dearest." Gustave smiled reassuringly and gestured for her to sit.

Brilliant and learned as his daughter may be, she was an abysmal judge of sarcasm and jest. She _did_ make jokes and had a particularly sharp wit, but oftentimes she was too serious. Not that she had no sense of humor, she simply had difficulty expressing it. The servants told him endlessly how Christine was far too contrary for a girl her age and should be giggling and tittering on with her friends _not_ perusing texts on biology or Latin. He, of course, had brushed them all aside. _True_ , she was a bit priggish at times but he knew that deep within her was a slumbering creature of mirth waiting to be awakened. It was simply a matter of her needing the right person to coax it to the surface. Gustave mentally added another line to the ever-growing list of requirements in a potential suitor. At the rate he was going, it would be a wonder if she _ever_ got married; which, _naturally_ , was completely fine by him.

Tea was routine this afternoon, with Christine describing the latest book she had read in detail and sharing some amusing insult she had come across in Chaucer's works. She inquired after his business and he brought her up on the latest: which ship had accidentally damaged some of the cargo, which captain had been in his cups and run aground, which contract was giving him issue, and so forth. Rather than being bored out of her mind, she contributed animatedly to the conversation and offered potential solutions. _Yes_ , she was an impressive girl and she would make a fine head of his company some day. His future was in secure, capable hands and how many men could claim the same?

"Papa?"

"Mm?"

"Were you listening?"

"I'm afraid I was lost in thought, my sweet. I am but an old man with a frail, wandering mind. But fret not, you command my full attention now, I swear it." He offered a penitent look.

"You know you are no such thing." Christine chided, "Anyways, I've finally finished identifying and cataloguing every species of plant, moss, tree, and flower on the estate; that's why I was late to tea. I've even sketched them too. Professor Harding says sketching is as fundamental to the biologist as the discovery itself and Schleiden says in his _Principles of Specific Botany_ that—"

"Oh, hang Schleiden! Show me _your_ sketches instead of prattling on about those of some German rogue." His declaration earned him a slight giggle. She was absolutely radiant when she smiled, it was a pity she did not do so more frequently. _For, if she did_ , he thought, _England would have far more days of sunshine._

"I was hoping you would want to see them." She blushed timidly as she produced a folio. It was strange that something could be so fragile yet at the same time, so strong (much like the flora that she so loved).

He thumbed through her drawings for several moments, this one in water colors, that one in ink, and some in charcoal. They were numerous and honestly ... _not_ immensely inspiring, but it was clear she had spent an abundance of time on them. Finally he spoke, "You know, my girl, you are an appalling artist. You've an intellectual mind and a vast knowledge of subjects, that's indisputable; your voice rivals that of the angels; you have some skill at the piano; I'm sure you would be a marvellous dancer, had you wished to learn; you can embroider well; your hand neat and your letters small and pretty; yet for all your virtues, you will never be immortalized as a great master. Say, what is this supposed to be?"

" _Hydrangea macrophylla_."

"A hydrangea, hm? It looks like an unravelling ball of yarn being swatted around by..." he squinted, "... green paddles. I'm sorry, dearest, but mayhaps you _should_ leave the illustrations to that German swine."

To his surprise she laughed; count on his Christine to appreciate candor. "Oh, I know I am just dreadful! I would have given up illustration long ago, but I have such fantastical pictures in my head and I keep trying in hopes that one day they might actually translate to paper. Are the sketches truly _that_ bad, papa?"

Gustave gave a somber nod, closing the folio and handing it back, "Absolutely _ghastly_."

She took it and held it in her lap, fiddling with the ties, "You _know_ ,"

Already he could tell there was some wicked plot stirring inside her pretty, little head. In her voice was that sweet, pleading chord she reserved specifically for when she wanted something, that tone he had been helpless to resist since her infancy. He wondered if she had engineered this whole thing, predicting his reaction to her artwork. She probably had, the clever lass, and he had fallen right in.

"Perhaps if I were to study under a venerated botanist such as Professor Harding, I could become more proficient. It is my dream to publish my own research on botany and however could I do so with such an obvious impediment?"

"I suppose you could always employ an illustrator." he suggested offhandedly.

"Well, _yes_ , but sketching, _examining_ the parts of the plant is the true thrill: the subtly changing concentration of green pigment from leaf to stem, the various hues comprising each satin petal, the specks and clods of dirt clinging to the roots and bulb, a crook in a leaf, the mark of an insect on a petal... An illustrator has no passion for these things, they simply draw what they see. They _illustrate_ in a literal sense. The true uniqueness, the little imperfections within nature and their significance are lost on them. No, it will not do to recruit an artist nor will it do to attain the services of another botanist, I want the work to be my own, to be a part of _me_ : the world through _my_ eyes and reflections of _my_ soul."

"Would you like me to hire a tutor? I'm sure there is such a thing."

"Why ever would you need to do something so silly when Professor Harding's expedition to the Caribbean leaves in a few days?"

Her motive now laid bare, Gustave adopted his most resolute, fatherly countenance, shutting his ears to the silvery voice that enticed him to capitulate. "Christine," he said sternly, "I thought we had already discussed the matter? The answer is still and will remain a firm no."

Unfortunately she had inherited his stubbornness in addition to his eyes and would not be so easily dissuaded.

"I know, but that was before you saw my terrible sketches. Please allow me this, papa, it would mean so very much to me."

"And it pains me to deny you, you _know_ that Christine, but I see no conceivable way for it to work. I cannot take an indefinite absence from my business to accompany you and Mrs Giry is currently away in France with her own daughter. I would send a servant but we keep such a small staff as it is that I couldn't spare one. We've no relations that might escort you and a young lady voyaging alone is unconscionable. Besides that it's such a long journey, thousands upon thousands of miles, what if something were to happen? No, I cannot allow it and no father in his right mind could or would. That is the end of it."

"But you allowed me to go to university in America and New York is also thousands upon thousands of miles away from England." she pointed out logically.

Drat her and her rationality! Pride mingled with annoyance as he spluttered in an attempt to save face, "Yes, ah, _well..._ that was _different_ , you see. You had Mrs Giry as a chaperon and attended an all female institution whereas in this instance you would be by yourself and surrounded by men just waiting to take advantage. I'm sure you are not ignorant of the unsavory and wayward sort who find work aboard ships, if not from your novels then from my trade; half the time they are inebriated and the other half they are frequenting places of ill-repute. _Why_ , an attractive young woman travelling alone would be akin to a trussed pheasant atop a serving platter to them! I would sooner die than put you in such a position for ruin."

"All of this I already know, but it shan't be a problem because I will _not_ be travelling as a vulnerable young woman."

"And what lunacy is this, child? Have you been scouring volumes of black magic when my head is turned? Have you recently learnt some spell to turn yourself into a chair or a trunk?"

"Don't be ridiculous, papa, it's impossible to turn oneself into an inanimate object. It is, however, _quite_ possible to change into the opposite sex."

"Preposterous!" Gustave thundered, "The very thought is blasphemous. This must be witchcraft of the darkest sort. I have no want of a son. If you become male, I shall see you disowned."

"There will be no need for that. I won't _truly_ be a boy, not really. Remember when I was small and you took me to the theatre to see _The Merry Wives of Windsor_? You told me how when Shakespeare's works were first performed, the female roles were played by men and boys, because the law disallowed women from being onstage. You said it sometimes even extended to opera. It would simply be me playing a part in the disguise of a boy. It's not as though I am the first to have the idea. Portia from _The Merchant of Venice_ dressed as a man to defend Antonio against Shylock, and in _Cymbeline_ Imogen dresses herself as a page; Gautier's heroine disguises herself as a man to discover how the opposite sex acts without the company of women; and _then_ there's that fairy tale by Madame d'Aulnoy wherein the protagonist Belle-Belle—"

"Those are just stories. How could _you_ pass for a boy, silly child?" he interposed, "You've hardly the figure to suggest masculinity. What of your hair? Surely it would give you away in an instant."

Christine was beaming now, sensing her looming triumph. "These are things easily remedied with the right cut of clothing and a pair of shears."

"You're not thinking of cutting your hair off in earnest, and all for an absurd voyage?" Gustave asked weakly.

"Not _off_ , no. Just a bit ... _shorter_. It will be easier to manage in the field, especially with the climate. Besides, my hair grows like weeds anyways; it shouldn't take overlong for it to recover."

"Foolish, delusional girl! I should send you to the nursery without dinner for such ravings."

"I have not been in the nursery for some time, papa. In fact, I am considered a woman now and I know my own mind. I've given this a great deal of thought. You cannot treat me as a child forever, eventually I must grow up and embark on my own adventures."

"Yes, I see that you have." he mumbled dolefully, "Oh, my dear Christine, I _know_ you are not a child and I want you to forge your own path in this world but you must understand that not all share my opinion that girls should be allowed such freedoms. I know you don't care what this lord or that lady thinks of you or how Society clicks its tongue in disapproval, but this is not simply a matter of public opinion. There are potential consequences involved, some of them dangerous, and were it not so, I would gladly give my consent. But you must also see that you are all I have left in this world aside from my health and fortune. Selfish and tyrannical as it may be, I cannot allow you to go, I'm sorry."

"What if Raoul were to accompany me? You know both him and his family incredibly well and we've been friends since the cradle. He could escort me and ensure that _Christopher's_ secret stays exactly that. Additionally he's won accolades in fencing and could defend my honor gallantly if the need arose."

Her desperate ploy appeared to have worked, for her father wrinkled his brow and stroked his mutton-chops in thought. "Raoul de Chagny? Yes, I suppose that would alter the situation. Would he be willing? Mind you, this is _not_ a declaration of assent!"

" _Willing?_ He's the one who suggested it in the first place; one of his Oxford companions mentioned it to him in passing. Raoul told me he's always wished to visit the Caribbean but has never been given an opportunity. Although he isn't interested in the flora, the expedition will provide him a chance to study the insects and other fauna. Tropical climes are a haven for bugs as you know."

"Mm, I had forgotten the boy was a budding entomologist. Wasn't he the one that chased you around with spiders and beetles in jars?

The recollection made her shudder; she always hated spiders. "That was him, yes."

A silence settled over the room then; the dying words lingering and fading softly like notes sustained by the damper pedal of a piano. Gustave was deep in his musings and Christine knew better than to disturb him. She bit her tongue to keep from speaking. It was torture. The clink of china and tick of clock the only sounds in the room; she thought she might go mad from it. Until her father's features relaxed and he placed his empty teacup upon the table, settling himself into his sternest manner.

"So you plan on calling yourself, Christopher, eh? Not James, Jack, Long John Silver, Huckleberry Finn, Oliver Twist, or Mr Darcy?"

"I thought it best to find a name close to my own, that way the shortened form will be the same and less likely to cause me to give myself away." Christine explained candidly.

Gustave threw up his hands in exasperation, admitting defeat. " _All right_ , you've made a fine point. I can see how dear this is to you and I've decided to put it to deliberation. However, I make you _no_ promises. Tomorrow you will bring Raoul de Chagny before me and I will speak with him; afterwards I will make my final decision. Since I am agreeing to even entertain this insanity, I will also require your word that you will accept my ruling whatever it may be. Do I have that, Christine?"

"You do, papa."

"No, no, that won't suffice." he waggled his finger, "I _need_ your word."

"I give you my word that I will offer no rebuttal regardless of what you decide." Christine forced back a smile, keeping her features even and collected. She refused to crack at this late hour, not when she was so close to achieving her dream. " _And_ I give you my infinite gratitude for your consideration."

He scrutinized her carefully for a moment, as if to detect sincerity, "Then we have an accord."

At once she jumped up and rushed over to him, throwing her arms about his shoulders and showering his cheeks with kisses. "Oh, thank you, papa, thank you _so much_!"

"Yes, yes... enough of all that now. Go on, get back to your plants and books, you silly girl! Remember I haven't decided anything, my answer is still no until otherwise determined. Have the boy come to call tomorrow after luncheon."

"I'll ring him as soon as I leave the room!" she cried gaily, practically skipping to the door.

"I shall speak to him alone, just so you know. Do not even attempt to feed him answers or groom him, I will know _immediately_ if he is coerced and then, not only will I forbid you from going on this excursion, I will erect a tower hundreds of feet high and lock you away at the very top until you are withered and grey and the world resembles an H.G. Wells novel."

But Christine did not hear his threats over the song that rushed forth from her lips as she stole from her father's study, beaming and lighter than air. She could have floated down the hall had her dress and shoes not weighted her down.

" _Silly girl_." Gustave mumbled to himself as he watched her depart, helpless to contain the grin that touched his lips. Her happiness was infectious like some great cloud of effervescence that buoyed the spirit no matter how glum or heavy. Listening to the sound of her singing dwindle alongside her footsteps, he couldn't help but feel the battle had already been lost and that come Wednesday he would be waving farewell at the Southampton docks.


	4. Of Melodies and Mysteries

**A/N: I present you all with another chapter.  
**

 **Big props to Whatanidea15 for being the first to review!**

 **So I couldn't find anything on how long the voyage from England to Martinique would have been around 1900. What I did discover was that a transatlantic trip from England to New York (think _Titanic_ ) took an average of 4-5 days and is 3,600 mi; Southampton to Saint-Pierre is 4,100 mi. By my estimate, the journey would have been 7-10 days depending on the route they took. **

* * *

Amidst the bustling confluence of ships and boats coming and going like the tide was a steamship. She was not the largest, newest, or most impressive, in fact she was quite ordinary, if a bit dog-eared. However as she steamed into the island port of Saint-Pierre and made berth, she was without debate the _happiest_ ship the entire leeward side of Martinique. A general aura of unbridled jubilance seemed to emit from her stacks with each sooty puff. Both passengers and crew were equally gladsome to see land after a long, exhausting journey and chattered animatedly over what earthly comfort they were looking forward to most. Whether it was a hearty meal, good drink, or pretty lass, the optimism was palpable.

Somewhere nestled within the throng were two bright but bleary-eyed youths who joined in on the anticipatory revelry that had commandeered the ship.

"What is the first thing you are going to do when we reach the inn, Raoul?"

The taller of the two rubbed his stubble-coated jaw. "Shave." he replied flatly, "It itches something dreadful. I would have done sooner but my cabin vibrated so much that I'd have slit my own throat. Immediately thereafter I plan on scrubbing a weeks' worth of salt and soot from my skin, downing a proper glass of cognac or port, and sinking into a soft mattress that does not pitch and roll like its upon the back of a horse. What about you? If I am uncomfortable you must be totally miserable."

His companion fixed him with a challenging look. "And why would I be miserable? Just because you're a dandy, doesn't mean I'm bothered by the spartan amenities."

Raoul grumbled under his breath, "Oh, _forgive my presumption_ , I wasn't aware you were so well-accustomed to going days between washes."

"I simply do not feel the need to grouse endlessly about it as do you. Anyways, the first thing _I_ wish to do is explore the island."

" _Explore?_ " he echoed in disbelief, "Are you in earnest? Of all the things you _could_ do: bathing, sleeping, resting, walking on solid ground, eating more than dubious stew, tinned fruit, and stale bread, you want to _explore_. You are _completely_ mad."

"Oh? And what else _should_ I want to do, be soused and slothful like you?" Christine retorted, bristling defensively.

"Not necessarily verbatim but, you know, the _usual_ things one does after a week cramped aboard a tottering old ship."

"Who is to say I will not? Only, I desire to investigate our new surroundings first and foremost. Professor Harding gave me some reading material on flora of the Lesser Antilles to look over and I'm eager to—"

He held up a wearied hand, shaking his head sympathetically. "While _you_ spend tonight charting every flower and blade of grass you happen upon, _I_ will be researching nearby madhouses with a snifter of brandy in hand in case your mania worsens."

There was a grunt of pain followed by Raoul massaging his now stinging shoulder; Christine had always known how to hit the most tender spot even when they were children. "And _you_ , Raoul de Chagny, are a ... _a_ _detestable arse_!"

"Watch yourself," he warned with mock conviction, leaning in so only she could hear, "just because you are dressed like a man, does not mean you should be swearing like one. I would _hate_ to have to write a letter to your father detailing your newfound coarseness, I am responsible for you _after all_."

Christine threw him a scathing glare and he was powerless to muffle his laughter as she stormed off, mumbling about the creative places he could shove his letter and responsibility.

* * *

Thousands and thousands of miles away in a handsome Oxfordshire manor a man sat in his dimming study, rum in one hand and a rumpled letter in the other. A pitiful sight was he, clad in his dressing robe and utterly disheveled. He was seemingly oblivious to the world darkening around him for he did not bother to rise and turn on a lamp, instead letting the blackness creep in until it enshrouded him. His stomach gave a pitiful growl and was met with disregard; days without food had weakened him but still he had no appetite. Maybe luck would bless him and he'd soon waste away. Blithering dolt that he was, he deserved no less.

Why in God's name had he let her go on that accursed excursion? Never had he intended to allow it in the first place! But she had come to him pleading and arguing and he couldn't deny her. Pathetic. Pithless. Weak. His shortcomings had placed his greatest treasure in mortal peril and it merited punishment. Severe punishment. He would accept any sentence if it would but bring his sweet Christine back safely.

The letter had arrived just four days after she had set off. Anonymous and untraceable, they said: a warning to harm him and all he held dear, including his beloved angel. Though, in some small turn of potential mercy, whomever penned it had threatened a _Christopher_ Daaé; it appeared they knew not the truth. Not yet. At least he had done one worthwhile thing in keeping his daughter solidly out of Society's spotlight, for few knew of her existence other than close family friends.

Powerless and panicked he had phoned an old chum from youth who had risen through the ranks to secure a position in the Foreign Ministry. Howard Watson had patiently listened and promised to reach out to his contacts. The next morning Gustave received word that someone (a soldier or detective) had been dispatched to escort Christine back to England. He kept the truth from Watson as well, that _Christopher_ was actually _Christine_ and had no intention of revealing otherwise, mainly because he could not suffer through the judgment and ridicule.

Currently he carried guilt enough for twenty men and what cut him deepest of all, sliced through artery and vein, was that she was oblivious. His poor, darling girl hadn't a clue of the danger she was in, that _he_ had placed her in. And for what? Some fantastic notion that he could make the world a better place? He should never have entered politics, he should never have been so arrogant, so presumptuous to think that he could alter society like a poor imitation of a god.

She would reach Martinique soon, either tomorrow or the following day; she would step off the ship with no thoughts in her head but those of botany and would pay no heed to the gathering miasma waiting to engulf her. Unless _this man_ , the one whom they had sent, could alert her in time. Which would prevail: light or darkness? Would these villains strike forthwith or later? Would they anticipate the cavalry and dispose of her guardian to get at her? So many questions and only one certainty: the game was out of his hands.

Now all there was to do was pray and wait.

"Mr Daaé?"

There was a soft knock before the door opened bringing with it a flood of light from the hall. He had never felt more like a creature of darkness then in that moment, like one of the characters from his angel's Gothic novels; he fought the urge to hiss and slink back into the shade.

"Supper is ready, sir. Will you take it in your study?"

No response. Mrs Burns might have thought the room empty had she not heard the faintest sound of paper crumpling. Swallowing, she decided to persist, albeit with prudence; it wouldn't do to offend or come off as impertinent when her employer was in such a way.

"Mr Daaé, sir, did you hear me?" she ventured.

"Is there no peace to be had in this thrice-damned house?!"

Whatever she had been expecting from the master, it was certainly not an outburst of temper. Mr Daaé was as mild as a spring morning and gentle as a lamb, he was as constant as the sea breeze. One would be hard-pressed indeed to find a man of a kinder disposition or more even temperament. But there had been an alarming change in him over the past couple of days. Gone was the glib, amiable man who treated his staff like people instead of mere chattel put on the earth to serve his whims and who frequently asked after them and their families from the butler to the lowest scullery maid. In his place was this changeable creature who hardly spoke, barely ate, refused to sleep, and drank to excess. In two days he hadn't left his study or even changed out of his dressing gown. This made his second fit of rage; the first had come yesterday morning when a little maid by the name of Jane had come in to build a fire. The poor child hadn't realized the master was present and had received such a subsequent fright that she was nigh inconsolable for hours afterwards; Mrs Burns had to excuse her for the remainder of the day. Any other time she would have chastised the man, social superior or not, but she knew such a move at present would prove foolhardy.

"Sir?"

"TAKE THE BLASTED TRAY AND LEAVE ME BE!" he roared.

Still reeling, the housekeeper did as she was told without hesitation, closing the door at the same time a glass shattered against the wall. _Something_ was horribly wrong. At first she and the rest of the servants had assumed that this irritability and melancholy stemmed from Miss Christine's departure. He had been similarly withdrawn when his daughter had journeyed to America for school but now doubts were beginning to brew. With a sad sigh, she returned to the kitchens to pass the news along to the cook, Mrs. Reed; the latter would be displeased, none recalled the last time the master had taken nourishment. Starting down the stairs, she made a note to offer an extra prayer for Mr Daaé during her nightly routine. Perhaps the good Lord might achieve what mortals could not.

* * *

 **Saint-Pierre - Late April 1902**

Christine eyed herself in the small, dingy looking glass of her room, carefully taking in each of her features, from the large brown eyes to the chestnut curls that now brushed her shoulders, swept back and tied into a neat ponytail at her nape. So far her secret had gone undiscovered. Not that any member of her expedition paid her much notice and old Professor Harding was half-blind. Both things had been a godsends in of themselves because they guaranteed she needn't speak much; it was one less potential for suspicion.

Days in the field were arduous and spent clad in loose-fitting khakis in the shadow of a mighty, smoking mountain. To everyone else she was just another toff barely out of boyhood—perhaps a _touch_ of a coxcomb—thirsting for adventure before settling down to assume his birth right. Raoul had grown surprisingly accustomed to _Christopher_ , though he couldn't bring himself to call her by her _nom de guerre_ and settled on referring to her as 'Chris'; he had joked that while her real name was two syllables, her assumed one was just one too many to pronounce.

It had been a fortnight since the balmy afternoon of their arrival. And what a two weeks it had been! She had learned an unbelievable amount in such a short span of time, much more than she could have ever hoped to absorb from textbooks. There was just something matchless about field studies, just as mastering a language under a tutor was nothing to being immersed among native speakers. Though her sketches had been admittedly little improved, she was too preoccupied to be overtly distressed. This land was every bit as exotic as she had envisioned, from the billowing, quaking stack of Mount Peleé to the abundance of flora flourishing in the tropic sun, it was extraordinary. The volcano frightened her at first—she had never seen one before—but upon a multitude of reassurances that it hadn't erupted in hundreds of years (at least majorly), Christine ceased to pay it heed.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, coming to a halt in front of her room. Startled, she froze hoping whoever it was would move on. Maybe they were drunk and looking for their room, it wouldn't exactly be novelty around here. She tried not to dwell on any other possibilities induced by her overactive imagination.

While she had not mentioned it to anyone (including Raoul) about a week ago she had been struck with an odd, portentous sort of feeling. Despite being unable to quite place it she _knew_ it was there either by intuition or instinct: an inky cloud of potent energy, both comforting and precarious, watching her, lurking at the fringes. Christine rolled her eyes when she heard the familiar voice, muffled by the wooden barrier. She breathed a sigh of relief, it was only Raoul.

" _Good Lord_ , Chris! Are you going to spend all day admiring your reflection or are you going to come out with us? The others grew impatient and left already."

"Yes, yes, Raoul. I am coming!" she called.

He smiled as soon as she stepped out of her room. " _Well_ , I am immensely gladdened to hear this news. For a moment I thought I might need to start calling you Dorian."

"Dorian Grey admired himself in a painting, _not_ a mirror. Narcissus was the mirror… _or_ more specifically a reflecting pool. Did you ever pay attention to your studies?" Christine retorted cheekily.

"I have no need with you for a friend."

"You flatter me, Raoul."

"What can I say? I am but a humble ignoramus eclipsed by your limitless brilliance, my lord." Raoul gave her a mock bow.

She cuffed him smartly on the upper arm in reply. "Ouch. I've no idea why I invited you, all you do is belittle and abuse me."

His complaint went unremarked. "Where is it that we are going and why with such haste?"

"It is a bar frequented by sailors, fishermen and laborers." Noting the way her nose wrinkled, he continued, "Under normal circumstances I would not set a foot into such a place either, but Hammond told me of how he overheard some workers discussing it. From what he's caught, there's this chap who has been in there every night for the past week. Every evening he appears, orders straight spirits and plays the piano in the corner for hours."

"And _why_ exactly is some miscreant drunkard banging away at an off-key piano worth our attention? I daresay you can see much of the same back home were you to hang about most every public house after a certain time."

Raoul scowled, "Precisely for the fact that this isn't merely some drunken clout. The rumor is that he is a former concert pianist flitting through the islands to escape a scorned lover, that he's a true virtuoso, comparable to Mozart or Chopin, and that his music is a gift from either angels or the devil."

"Why, Raoul, I had no idea you were such a romantic!" she teased.

"My family _is_ French, after all. It's in my blood."

And so, the duo continued towards the fabled bar and its mysterious attraction like children in search of pirate's gold, the sounds of their exchange still audible as they walked on. From the light affability of their ribbing it was apparent that neither had the slightest inkling they were presently under scrupulous study.

Darkness shifted and rippled, birthing something truly formidable. A wraith, perhaps. It was impossible to say, anyone who caught a glimpse of it might deduce as much once fear's grip released their mind and the chill subsided from their blood. Whatever it was, spectre or figment, it stalked from the shadows like a great black feline. Watching, scrutinizing, _waiting_ for the perfect opportunity to pounce. None would be the wiser until the eleventh-hour was upon them, until they were staring into the creature's burning eyes.

It would come tonight.

He could feel it from the change in wind, the restless shifting of air. _Tonight_ he would strike after an endlessly protracted, empty sennight of loitering. Head and body were ready, both coiled tighter than the rope stashed up his sleeve. The operation had been set in motion and promised success.

Fortune evidently approved of diligence and planning as she was in his favor tonight. Everything would be less complicated than ever anticipated. Yes, fortune _had_ indubitably blessed him, for tonight prey would unwittingly seek out predator.

A week had passed since he had landed on the island of Martinique: a lush, green picturesque paradise. Really, it was a pity he was there on assignment not holiday, else he might enjoy it; though he would certainly _never_ own it. Utopia or no, he had not time for leisurely appreciation.

Days were spent planning, preparing, and procuring while nights were spent seeking, spying, and scheming. When he wasn't hoarding supplies and mapping out the terrain, he looked in on his target. Upon first glance he surmised that the boy was everything he predicted: foppish, frail, bookish, and slight. It would be a miracle if he didn't have to carry the dotard the entire way. Judgment turned to resentment and then to dislike. From a distance, he seethed and hated and _pondered_. Would the world truly mourn another dainty weakling strutting about from Club to opium den in his flamboyant frippery?

Sleep-starved meditations told him no. Let the will of nature preside without interference. Perhaps he could stay here and settle himself, wake up each morning to the calling of seabirds and warm sunlight. Extremely tempting. But alas, the splendor would eventually wear thin and that volcano left him distinctly unsettled. Intuition alerted him that disaster was on the horizon and he preferred to not be near when it hit.

Still, more than once he envisaged botching the mission. Easily done enough. He was _not_ the only one with eyes on the boy. The enemy was there also, lying in wait, gathering for an ambush. They would strike soon. Better that he did first.

Terribly amateur as they were they proved offensively effortless to follow. His second night trailing them had led him to the bar. Squalid and seedy, it was an ideal spot for whores, thieves, gamblers, and ruffians. Neither he nor the gang of thugs stood out amidst the sordid crowd. He had overheard a plethora of information from his place behind the neglected little piano, information on their numbers, plans, names of leaders, and location of operations. It appeared his task promised to be a pathetic farce.

 _C'est la vie_ , he supposed as he continued along, his destination silhouetted in moonlight. Already he could hear the tawdry laughter of prostitutes, ribald conversations, and raucous shouts of brawls. Tonight could not be more desirable. A keen leer twisted his lips. There was no need to rush, he could spare time to savor the hunt. He was a patient man when the situation necessitated it. Besides, he had a few things to do yet, he could afford to return within the hour. His competition would be absent, awaiting a shipment of weapons and further instructions from their puppeteers. Fate could not have chosen a better moment.

The boy was inadvertently walking into his trap, lured by the music of some bizarre performer, by _his_ music.

And disappoint, he would not.

 **o o o**

It was the type of establishment she had read about in books but had no idea existed in reality. Although, she presumed writers took inspiration from _somewhere_. Dingy, debauched, and rife with the sort of crowd one might find in London's most despicable slums, it was an alien world. The stench of stale, acrid smoke hung thick in the air alongside the smell of cheap perfume, rum and sin. Layered grime of indeterminable color and origin seemed to cover every surface like a greasy film.

"I cannot believe you actually _wanted_ to come here." she hissed at Raoul as they took two seats at a shabby, isolated corner table; she pursed her lips, "I don't suppose they'll have anything of a decent vintage."

He indicated to a barmaid, who sauntered over and bent at the best angle to display her ample bosom. Christine looked away but Raoul grinned slyly. "Two tankards of ale, please, lovely." The wench gave a saucy wink and returned with the order, as soon as she had left again he turned, "Come now, Chris, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Far from this wretched hive of amorality, I assure you."

Her discomfiture grew as the night wore on, made more so by the realization that every single woman in the room was a... _well, harlot_. If papa discovered she had visited such a place, the shame would be unbearable. A proper lady would have turned and ran; this was _no_ place for her. Ah, but it was an acceptable locale for a _boy_ , for strapping, young _Christopher_.

"I don't hear any legendary musical prodigies, unless you count that redhead singing over there as one." Christine stated tartly.

"Oh, he'll show up, I wouldn't expect he keeps a schedule." he chuckled, "Besides, we've not yet been here for an hour, try to relax. How is your beverage?"

"Tolerable, I guess. I've not had anything other than wine before."

"Excellent! A night of memories, then. You know, it's not so bad here. There's a kind of appealing freedom to it all." Raoul said contemplatively, looking around the room.

"The appealing freedom of being a reprobate or strumpet?"

Raoul shook his head, nursing his second ale, "You, my friend, are much too austere; ease up and you'll find life more enjoyable."

"I _do_ enjoy life, admittedly not _every_ aspect but—"

The rest of her words were lost in the gust of music that tore through the room, extinguishing voices like candles. It was not at all the typical bawdy tune one might expect in a port-side sump, yet not a soul complained. Christine would not have been surprised if the world itself had completely halted on its axis, the entire bar appeared to be under a spell, charmed by the music like snakes or children following the Pied Piper, instead business went on as before, albeit at a calmer, quieter pace.

Tchaikovsky, _maybe_ , but she could not say with any surety. As quickly as it had come, the aural pleasure was at an end and dozens of patrons breathlessly awaited the next blissful dosage.

Thus the trance persisted for hours, melody after melody, composition after composition. This was the music of the swell, of opulent concert halls and palaces: Liszt, Chopin, Saint-Saëns, Beethoven, Grieg, Haydn, and countless others she couldn't name. Christine was exceedingly familiar with music, she had been raised on the folk tunes of her papa's violin and favored piano herself. Most of these pieces she had heard, even played, before but never had she witnessed them played like this. It was as if this person understood each individual variation, coda, arpeggio, accidental, each element of the music on an intimate level. She wondered what business someone of such enormous talent had in, what for all purposes, resembled one of Blackbeard's favored haunts. Perhaps he was yet another wayward soul trapped in this spirit-soaked purgatory. Queerer still was that with each note, each chord, each crescendo her feeling of watched magnified until she was suffocating, that prickling, needling sensation wherein every hair rose on end and every muscle stood, tense and at attention.

Was this what her early ancestors experienced as they foraged in the midst of savage, prehistoric fauna? Just like they must have been she was hit with the sudden instinct for flight. Minutes (or eternities) passed and the pounding inside her ears reached a dizzying pinnacle, wrenching her stomach and threatening to loose the bitter ale she had drank. One thing was abundantly clear: she _had_ to get out, had to leave posthaste before she crumbled into powder and mingled with the dust on the floor. She stood up so quickly that she nearly lost her balance.

"Is there something the matter?" Raoul regarded her with a tiny frown.

"I _just..._ I've a terrible headache and am in need of some air."

"All right, let me finish my drink and we'll go back to the inn." Even through the concern she could detect a hint of disappointment at cutting the night short.

"No, it's fine, really. You stay here and I will go."

"Ridiculous! Do you think I'm going to let you walk alone at this hour? I made a promise, no ... _oath_ to your father that you would come to no harm and I intend to keep to it."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Men and their misplaced chivalry; she hadn't the tolerance for it. "Who is going to molest a man on a midnight stroll? If you're that concerned, lend me your pistol."

"My what?"

Narrowly resisting the urge to scream, she forced a civil tone. "Did you not think I'd notice? Loan it to me, it should deter any criminals; I'll leave it in the drawer of your room."

Had he not already imbibed a tot of rum in addition to his third ale Raoul would have refused her request, but his eyes had grown glassy, his speech had begun to blend, and he was yielding to the alcohol. Therein ensued several tense seconds before he relented and handed her the weapon under the table.

"Careful to stay in the light. Our little secret." he said, putting a finger to his lips.

"Our little secret." she repeated with a smile, tucking it into her belt before slipping away from Gehenna and the music that sought to drain her soul. If she had stayed to listen, she would have noticed that the melody ceased nearly immediately after she departed.

Finally able to breathe freely, she sucked a gulp of delightful night air and set off towards the modest, little inn. Five minutes into her trek she quickened her pace. Rather than comforting as it had been initially, the evening started to close in all around her with solid, tenebrous walls. She was almost running now. Panic stole in and took ahold of her every sense. Here was a monster beside that building; there was a savage beast behind that gas lamp; everywhere she looked was some creature hungering for virgin flesh.

Christine then became acutely aware she was being followed. Deep down she knew it was useless to flee from whatever foe dogged her. Fighting was the only option. Steeling herself all the while, she hustled down an alley making a handful of sharp turns through the winding back roads Saint-Pierre, eventually ducking into an abandoned empty shed and the welcoming arms of darkness. Her web now spun, she lay in wait for her prey like a clever black widow.

 **o o o**

 _Where had that blasted boy gone?_

This infernal brat was more trouble than he was worth. Erik moved ahead soundlessly, carefully keeping to the shadows. He stopped next to a shed to recollect his wits. There was still no sign of his quarry and the soil was far too dry for tracking by moonlight.

 _Damnation!_ How could the boy have escaped? It was as if the lad had disappeared into thin air. Perhaps he wasn't the only illusionist present and _then again..._ His eyes flew back to the wooden structure he had overlooked. Played for a fool; the deception dawned on him mere tenths of a second before the dull thud and sharp pain in his head that gradually increased in intensity until the world around him melted away.

* * *

 **It technically _was_ a meeting so I didn't lie. ;)**

 **Don't worry, the dialogue and action follows directly. I mean, unless that blow to the head killed him, _then_ it would be a short story indeed. Kidding.  
**

 **Oh, and _might_ want to take note of the aforementioned volcano (Mount Peleé) and the date (spring 1902); they might become relevant later.**

 **Rate and review?**


	5. Obdurate pride and stedfast hate

**First off, thanks for the reviews Terpischore92 and Zoologist! I am glad you guys like the story thus far.**

 **Guest - I would normally reply to you via PM but cannot because you don't have an account. I would love to answer your question, but I'm not quite sure what you mean. If you are worried about Erik suddenly throwing away all animosity once he finds out her secret, your concerns are unfounded. Obviously the dynamics do shift a bit once he does, but it's not immediate and there's still a _lot_ of bickering. They are two headstrong, independent people, after all. There _is_ a certain point where he realizes he's attracted to her. Although I am not sure you can blame him (when that part _does_ happen, lol). Hope that alleviates your concerns.**

 **Now the moment I'm sure some of you have been waiting for... the _real_ meeting. And it's a nice loooong one.  
**

* * *

As he slowly opened his eyes, the first thing Erik noticed was the throbbing at the back of his skull and the second was the rough rope binding his wrists and ankles; lastly the blow had affected his vision, which now wavered and swam. For a fleeting moment he believed himself to be back within the bowels of the Persian palace, but the air was far too humid for Tehran. From the sweet muskiness of rotting wood intermixed with earthy notes of moss and dirt, he surmised that he was in some sort of dilapidated building. It came to him then: _that shed!_ His acumen still dulled by the resounding ache in his head, he clumsily tried to piece together where everything had gone wrong; brief memories, foggy snippets, were called up. He recalled trailing the wretch, a room at an inn, the bar, playing that downtrodden instrument, flushing his prey like a rat from a hole, giving chase, losing the boy, _and..._

Humiliation and abhorrence raced throughout him, numbing the pain and sharpening his focus. _He_ , a paradigm of espionage, had been bested by an artless schoolboy who hadn't seen a day outside of his father's estate prior to this month. _Pathetic._ The tang of shame filled his mouth, coating his tongue in a thick, pungent bile. Hatred took hold then. Hubris did not shatter easily so instead he turned to hatred for comfort. Erik hated the boy, to be sure, hated him for everything and nothing at the same time. He should have left the little villain to the wolves but now, pride wounded, his tenacity was stoked anew.

His quarry would be located even if it carried him over mountain and through river; young Christopher Daaé would know no peace. Truthfully he hadn't expended a great deal of effort thus far. _Well_ , that would soon change. Wherever he was, there was nowhere the fop could hide. After two weeks of studying various maps, every inch of the island was committed to memory.

Then, _perhaps_ he needn't look very far. The barest creak of a plank announced he was not as alone as he had previously thought. He couldn't help but (begrudgingly) laud the child's bravery. Very few people would have lingered, but audacity oft gave way to foolishness. Silently he waited, loathing evolving into intrigue; he made no effort to loosen the ropes that bound him, which—he conceded—were surprisingly well tied.

Waited and waited with growing amusement until at last his companion spoke.

" _Who_ are you and _why_ are you following me?!"

The voice had a clear, almost _pretty_ , quality to it. Like the chiming of church bells, rather a high register for a boy past adolescence. Although, it was impossible to judge as fear had a tendency to alter such things and the boy reeked of it. Stunned as he was, it took him a second to recognize the question had not been asked in English.

"Well?! _Answer_ me!" Erik blinked slowly, trying to regain his eyesight. It had cleared somewhat, allowing him to _just_ discern the barrel of a gun trained directly at his forehead.

"I _do_ hope your aim is superior to your French or you'd be better served bludgeoning me with that. You've at least proven fairly adept at the latter." His reply was issued in impeccable French, punctuated by a roll of his eyes.

" _Do..._ do you speak English?"

"Among _other_ things..." he drawled languidly.

Christine stared at her captive in shock. She had assumed most people would panic in his situation, spilling their darkest secrets and pleading for their lives. _Not_ him evidently. The blasé, collected manner in which he addressed her was as unexpected as it was unnerving. Whoever this was, he was no ordinary man. Lord only knew what might have befallen her had their positions been reversed and she was the one tied on the floor of the shed; the thought made a cold shiver run down her spine.

"Who are you?" she repeated in English, slightly grateful she could give up French. She never had much of a knack for it unlike the other well-bred girls; her tongue was better suited to Latin and Greek.

No answer. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

"There's a pistol pointed at your face. It might be wise to talk lest I run out of patience."

"You make a decidedly poor interrogator, perchance you should reiterate _without_ that tremolo of fright in your voice." His air of self-assurance was fatiguing and outright vexing. Here was _exactly_ the kind of smug man she detested. Even if they had met under benign circumstances, she'd have found him insufferable.

"I'm _not_ afraid!" she bit out hastily, "I know you were following me and I swear to God I _will_ shoot you if you don't tell me who you are this instant!"

He made a sound of approval low in his throat. "Better. _Well_ , in spite of your empty threats. We both know you will do no such thing, had you the intention of shooting me you would have done already. Cease the inane posturing and put down _that..._ " He squinted, pausing in consideration, " _Modéle 1892 revolver_. Fine choice, the St Etienne 8mm has quite a lot of firing power. I daresay you could kill me easily were the chamber not empty."

"You know _nothing_!" Christine's terror rushed forth in a strangled yell. She wondered if this stranger could sense her fear as predators were rumored to do, if he was simply toying with her _, playing with his food._ The image was burned into her mind with alacrity: him, a sleek, ebony panther circling her, fangs bared, searching for a weakness to exploit.

" _Perhaps not_ , however I do believe a firearm must be loaded in order to effectively shoot someone."

Her bluff had been called. The pistol was just for show, a measure of deterrent in the event she was approached on the walk back to the inn; Raoul hadn't given her any bullets and she cursed him for it, wishing he had provided her but one. A single bullet would have definitely been better than what she had now. _True,_ she didn't even know how to use a gun, but she supposed skill was irrelevant if one were to shoot a person directly between the eyes at close range.

On that subject, how had he managed to guess what kind of gun she held to his head? Luck, most likely. _Yes_ , that was it: a lucky guess. There was no other way, nothing conceivable at least. _It wasn't as if..._

Despite acknowledging it to be ridiculous, she couldn't shake the distinct, niggling unease that he could see in the dark like an animal; a notion doubtlessly owing to that irrationality which accompanied panic. Humans eyes did not work the same as those of wolves or tigers, as a scholar she was positive of that fact. Still, _something_ was incredibly off about him and she was glad for the foresight to utilize the rope she had found in the shed.

"Y-You're mistaken, it _is_ loaded and I _will_ act on my threat if you don't do as I say!" Years of rigorous education had sculpted her into a person of logic, to her every phenomenon had a rational and scientific explanation, but the certainty that she was in the presence of someone, or _something_ supernatural was growing.

Christine felt an instinctual urge to tear from the spot and flee from this man, yet the melodic power of his voice kept her in place. That voice was another oddity in of itself, simultaneously haunting, deadly, and beautiful. Who was he? The question hounded her more strongly than ever, come hell or high water she resolved to uncover an answer.

"Your _'threats'_ are less convincing than your French and pitifully so. Intimidation is patently _not_ your forte."

Suddenly all went eerily silent. The chorus of insects simply stopped as if the entire island had been doused under a smothering blanket. It was akin to being suspended in a void of quietude, of emptiness vast and lonely, reminding her that she was but an insignificant plankter within the ocean's vastness. Time was agonizingly stretched and pulled and she gripped her head to keep it in place. Then all at once the quiet broke, all at once there were _other_ noises flooding the air: sounds of distant yelling, screams, crashing, and loud pops.

Maybe it was a brawl. Fights occurred with regularity in establishments such as those; the combination of drink and rowdiness was a veritable powder keg awaiting the flame of any minor slight. Yet the creeping tendril of fear wrapping itself around her brain stem indicated a darker, more worrying explanation.

Desperate for the alleviation found in distraction, she addressed the other person in the room. "More of your friends?" she inquired, unable to keep the quiver from her voice.

"Mine? _Hardly._ " he scoffed, "I work alone."

That complicated matters to be sure. Her pulse jumped and her palms began to sweat; _maybe_ he was lying. She _hoped_ he was lying. "Then who are they if not your men?"

"I should think _that_ much obvious."

"So they're after you then? If that's the case, I'll be on my way. I've no wish to interfere in the feuds of criminals."

He let out a deep chuckle clothed in black malice. "Ever so righteous, are we not? Alas, _no_ , they aren't after _me_. Come, boy, I was told you were _competent_." This last was drawn out, the skepticism tangible.

"If they're not chasing you then what—"

"Good God! Are you in need of an illustration? There are men after _you_ , soulless dregs who wish to harm _you_."

After _her_? _Preposterous!_ Why would anybody be after her? Nobody had _noticed_ , let alone held a grudge against, her. She had been overlooked the entirety of the expedition and doubted anyone outside of Raoul and Professor Harding even knew her name. "Why would they be after me? I've not done anything to offend nor made any enemies here."

The shouts were not as far away now, they seemed to be _approaching_.

There was not a speck of doubt in Erik's mind as to what was causing the far-off commotion. Apparently the idea to act tonight had not been uniquely his and judging from the direction and volume of the noise, their time was dwindling. And _quickly._ The hired gang consisted of five (that he had seen) all armed but with what he knew not; a bit of an excess for a small twig of a boy with no exceptional skill or knowledge of the terrain. But he theorized more men increased the odds of success and admired the forethought. He hurriedly worked through the calculations in his head; he had faced worse odds in the past. If he could catch them off-guard in an ambush, he could dispatch them one at a time. It was the most logical solution, one he had employed in similar situations on previous missions. Although on previous missions he hadn't been saddled with the responsibility of another life, an _inept_ one at that. The boy would only be in the way, Erik wouldn't think of asking him to fight. Not that he was able to do any fighting either, bound as he was. Their chances were becoming more hopeless by the second. He _had_ to get free.

"You might think to look for a shovel."

"What for?" came the confused reply.

"So that you may dig each of us a proper grave since you insist upon this asinine exercise in time-wasting. The time for dawdling is over; cut me free so that we might both have a probability of survival."

It was her turn to laugh snidely at his expense. "Cut _you_ free? The man who was following me and won't even give me so much as a name? Not even a simpleton would be _that_ foolish."

"Listen, _boy_ , my patience is wearing thin." His tone darkened considerably, the steely note within made her draw back slightly, "Surely even _you_ are not deluded enough to believe you stand the remotest chance against thugs and murderers. How do you intend to fight them armed with an unloaded revolver and a few sticks?"

More shouts. This time close enough to discern individual voices. Christine didn't have an answer but resented his rational accuracy notwithstanding; she hated him both for being correct and confronting her with reality. A decision had to be made and _soon_ , she hated him for that too.

" _Won't be long now..._ " he said dispassionately, as if commenting on the weather or outcome of a horse race; his statement only made her angrier, more frustrated at her obvious impotence.

"I'll _consider_ freeing you _if_ you tell me who you are and why I should trust you." It was the best compromise she could manage with fear muddling her brain, threatening to paralyze and slowly asphyxiate her.

"You truly are a _marvel_ to behold, a rare, new form of idiocy. Do you honestly think _this_ the time for introductions? It's a wonder you survived past the cradle. Cut me free or I will do it myself."

"If you can free yourself then why haven't you?"

His lip twitched haughtily. "I could, _yes_ , but then I would not have your trust. Despite my indifference on the matter, it is paramount that I have it."

 _Well,_ she hadn't anticipated _that_ response. Was it psychological manipulation to lower her guard, to trick her into freeing him? Why did he give a damn about earning her trust if he meant her harm? Furthermore, why would he have held a conversation with her instead of escaping or killing her? Maybe he was one of those deranged murderers who took pleasure in prolonging the experience. Maybe it was a delay until reinforcements arrived. Maybe it was a subterfuge and he couldn't free himself. _Or maybe_ he was being truthful and could help. Regardless, the decision hadn't become any more straightforward, if anything it was _harder_ with the addition of these new variables.

The shouts were nearer, near enough to discern bits and pieces of the horrible things they were saying even with her meager French vocabulary. These were _not_ allies and they were scant yards away.

"It appears you are not left with many options. _Trust me, free me_ , and I will guarantee your safety." He shrugged, " _Or_ you can attempt to bargain with them if you prefer. Make your choice now, boy."

No other alternative existed, she was damned no matter what. Christine had taken an immediate dislike to this man and yet there was some queer measure of security in his voice, something that beggared trust. She knew she'd get no such assurances from the others, who were presently searching the area. Like it or not, the only recourse was to put her faith in her eccentric captive and pray he didn't turn on her.

"I have no way to cut the ropes." she admitted numbly, gnawing at her lip.

"There's a knife sheathed in my left boot. Take care not to cut yourself."

With a heavy swallow, and careless, unladylike swear, she did as instructed and carefully extricated the blade. Then, with a single upwards motion, sliced through each of his bindings.

In a soundless instant, he was on his feet and the knife was wrenched from her hands. Christine closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable attack. _It never came._ Instead there was a curious strangled, gurgling noise and her eyes flew open. She was alone in the shed. Head thumping with a cocktail of dread and uncertainty, she took a deep breath, stepping through the door almost tripping over a large mass.

Inadvertently she looked down at the impediment and immediately regretted it. A man lay motionless on the ground at her feet, his throat sliced open: thick, crimson blood bubbled from the wound in a steady pulse. Christine screwed her eyes shut so tightly it hurt, wishing the sight away. It was too late, the scene was burned onto the inside of her eyelids. No matter how many times she tried to tell herself it was an illusion, it grew less convincing with each repetition. Forever would she be haunted by the image of death. There was not a substance strong enough to scour her mind, nor a place she could withdraw to escape its grisly mien. A voice, raised in acrimony reached her ears:

"Are you _entirely_ fucking useless?! Open your goddamn eyes and take this!"

Before she had a chance to process such obscene language, something cold and metal was thrust into her hands: it was a pistol, a revolver like the one currently tucked into her belt. Without asking she knew it to be loaded. Another instrument of death. She stared at the weapon resting in palms that didn't seem attached to her body; it was enormously heavy, so heavy she felt it weighing her down, making her sink into the earth.

For the next few minutes, she was frozen unflappable shock as other attackers crumpled at the hands of a dark-haired man. _Two. Three. Four._ It was a nightmare, it _had_ to be. _Yes,_ this was all in her mind and soon she would wake up safe in her little inn bed _._

One villain remained: a huge, hulking brute with stringy hair and filthy clothes. He and the dark-haired man were battling over a knife, their strength apparently matched. The struggle played out in slow motion. Legs locked around each other, shoulders collided, elbows dug into tender spots and she watched with the same detachment reserved for a stage play; she was a part of the events and then she _wasn't,_ just another audience member watching the action unfold from a distance.

"Shoot him for Christ's sake! _Shoot him!_ " cried the one pinned against a tree, the knife slowly being forced towards his heart by the swarthy fiend.

The blade was so close, close enough to kiss skin. A quick jab and it would be over. Just like the first man, the life would pour from his body, his soul flowing out and staining the ground, leaving behind an empty, glassy-eyed husk. It was a peculiar feeling watching last moments that weren't one's own, glimpsing Death hovering nearby awaiting his due. Could _he_ see it as well, feel the cold breath of the Reaper at his neck? Would he give in or fight until the last? Christine continued to stand there in this morbidly voyeuristic fashion, the reality of the situation still hovering just out of her grasp.

This was not real. This _could not_ be real. She would awaken any second. _Any second._

It took the bellow of pain ripping through her ears, ricocheting off her ear canals, to make it sink in. This _was_ happening, it was no fantasy, no dream. She _was_ awake and lucid and present. One of these men would die tonight and _she_ had the power to intervene, to decide which it would be.

Shaking from head to foot with somber purpose, she picked up a rock, aimed, and hit the lout in the back of the skull with a smack. Baffled by the impact, he spun and started towards her menacingly, perverse glee hewn onto his crude, primitive features. Any pride in the surety of her aim drained away, replaced by sheer terror. He was after _her_ now, what would she do? _The pistol!_ It came to her with abrupt clarity. Slowly, violently trembling she wrapped her hands round the grip and raised the gun, pointing it directly at her target. One finger slid into the trigger guard, curling around the trigger within: _cold, metal, unforgiving_. She inhaled and squeezed.

Nothing happened.

Another try met with the same result. _Damnation!_ The trigger was jammed. Her foe was almost upon her and she could sense the end was nigh. Christine straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back, standing at full height and lowering the weapon. At least she would die with dignity rather than cowering. Suddenly the man lurched to a halt, his eyes bulging. She thought she glimpsed something around his neck before there was a nauseating crack and he fell motionless on the spot.

 _Alive._ She was somehow alive. Alive and surrounded by the dead. Distantly she watched as the bodies disappeared around her, dragged into darkness by Death one by one until only she was left.

" _Come._ "

An irresistible entreaty and a large hand that closed over her wrist, tugging her into the foliage and pulling her down a winding jungle path, leaves slapped her face and legs; twigs and branches scratched her cheeks and caught in her hair; knotted roots and vines tangled round her ankles. Christine couldn't see anything, yet her feet carried her forward, willed by the mysterious force attached to her arm. Breathing became a challenge and sweat poured down her body from the exertion. Up or down? She couldn't tell. Finally, on the verge of collapse she came to a prompt stop, her continued inertia bringing her crashing into something solid. There was a grunt and she realized it was a _someone_ rather than a _something_ she had collided with. _Him._ Her bizarre captive.

"Why— _why did we stop?_ " she panted.

"Supplies."

Eyeing the landscape dubiously, Christine pursed her lips, " _Supplies?_ We're in middle of the jungle, or hadn't you noticed, Mowgli?" she quipped, the retort rolling smoothly off her tongue.

No verbal answer came. Instead the hand from earlier encircled her wrist and she was led once more through a damp mass of plants, stepping up just in time to avoid tripping over a threshold. She yelped in alarm at the rasp of a match and ensuing bright surge of light.

"Quiet!" a voice hissed.

Christine rubbed her eyes in an effort to adjust to the change in brightness and banish the multi-colored dots littering her vision. The area grew steadily more illuminated until her surroundings swam into dim focus. She was in a shack of some kind, long-since abandoned if the abundance of cobwebs, dirt, and general disrepair were any indication. Movement out of her periphery reminded her that she was _not_ alone. Heart racing, she looked upon her captive-turned-rescuer for the first time.

Earlier it had been dark and she had been too preoccupied to offer any intense scrutiny; she knew only that he was large and heavy, requiring every ounce of strength she had to drag a few feet. Later when she freed him, she had only caught glimpses of his back. Now there were no such hindrances, now she could see him clearly.

Her foremost thought was how tall he was, his head nearly brushing the roof of the tiny hovel. Her eyes swept down his body, following the broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist and hips. Well-built but not brawny, erring on the side of thin. She paled when he turned, her eyes widening and locking onto the front of his shirt: stained and spattered crimson. He whirled away, yanking the ruined garment over his head before switching it for a clean one. Christine tried mightily to avert her gaze from the taut muscles of his back and the odd shadows that crisscrossed the flesh; she had never seen a man's exposed skin before— _not papa's, not Raoul's_ —and wondered at the unrecognizable warmth that tingled within her stomach at the sight.

Whatever emotion it was, it only increased when he faced her again, sweeping a hand through his inky hair in an attempt to make himself more presentable. He was not quite as young as her but could not be more than fifteen years her senior, probably closer to ten. There was an exceedingly irritating arrogance about him, evident even in the dim glow of the lanterns: in his posture, stance, aura. Indeed, his _every_ feature, including his face. _That face._ Hidden behind a black mask that extended from forehead to just below his nose, like a highwayman. Perhaps that title wasn't so inaccurate. She gulped upon noticing he too examined her with acute interest from eyes the color of a stormy sea.

"Are you injured?" He was still surveying, blue-grey eyes roaming her form.

She blinked dumbly before registering that the question was meant for her. "No. A-Are you?"

"I'm fine."

 _Much too pretty._

Much too pretty to be a boy with those large eyes, fair complexion, and refined features. _Extremely effeminate_ : a little dandy if ever he saw one. Not excessively short but incredibly skinny and slight of frame, his clothes bagged about him pitifully. A boy wearing his father's clothing. He couldn't be more than twenty, the genuine astonishment emanating from his dark irises was almost comical; like a sheltered lad from a pirate novel who had his first exhilarating taste of fighting, drinking, and adventure.

"Here." A pistol was extended towards him, "It's jammed, I think."

Erik took the weapon, inspecting the Webley Mk IV revolver fondly; his only such memory from the damn war.

"You tried to use it?" he asked with mild intrigue.

"Yes, but it wouldn't fire. Else how would I have known it is jammed?" Christine returned testily.

"Did you cock the hammer?"

"I pulled the trigger."

He smirked and nodded, "As I thought then: the problem lies not with the gun but with he who wields it."

"I apologize if my knowledge of firearms is lacking. Since I'm neither soldier nor scoundrel, I've never held a pistol before tonight." she spat in annoyance.

" _That_ is plainly apparent."

A scowl lit her face. It was worse than previously thought. He was repugnant, _completely_ intolerable. She couldn't stand him and yet something told her she would be forced to endure his company for more than just tonight. The very idea of his infuriating man for company turned her innards.

"Are you at last going to reveal the mystery of your identity and reason for following me or must I linger on?"

"You know, I more fancy myself a Bagheera than a Mowgli." he said, ignoring the query and hearkening back to her earlier comment.

 _I can see why,_ she thought, noting his almost-feline mannerisms. "Honestly I am dashed you understood the reference. I wasn't aware criminals even knew their letters, much less spent their leisure time reading Kipling."

"On the _contrary_ , Kipling is a favorite among rapists, thieves, extortionists, murderers, and general scum of the Earth; it's his ease of prose. Though, in my experience most French desperadoes prefer Flaubert, while Russians are partial to Dostoyevsky."

Was he jesting? She couldn't tell and decided to go along.

"You mean because both Dostoyevsky and Flaubert's works are bleak and might drive a man to criminality?"

"Precisely. Bleak but well-written, consider _Madame Bovary_ and _Crime and Punishment_." His eyes narrowed, "Is _that_ what you believe me to be, a lowly criminal?"

"How should I know _what or who_ you are?! Had I figured that out, I needn't consistently inquire!" Christine snapped.

"And yet, I doubt you'd believe what I told you. _Thank you_ , but I think I'll not waste my breath, boy."

The air left her lungs in a great huff. " _Fine._ " She crossed her arms over her chest, her frown deepening, "May I know your name at the very least then?"

"Erik." he said simply, moving to the corner where a pile of assorted stuff lay.

Though the light of the lanterns did not quite reach the jumble, it looked like more than was necessitated for a single night's stay. Again Christine grew nervous. What were this Erik's designs for her?

"Shouldn't you ask mine? Common courtesy dictates that you—"

"You will find that illiterate blackguards such as myself have no need for the insipid decrees of polite society, young Daaé."

Christine missed the bedroll he tossed at her and it bounced off her midsection, knocking the breath from her chest. But she was far too stupefied to pay attention to her aching torso. " _W-What_ did you call me?"

Erik cocked his head in question. "Do you prefer Christopher?"

"H-How do you know my name?" Her voice came out as little more than a squeak.

 _Hang nerves!_ She was _terrified_. Who in the hell was this man and how did he know her identity? _Not your identity,_ her brain corrected, _Christopher's._ There was the tiniest trace of a silver lining in amidst hopelessness: he knew neither her true name nor secret. And he would _never_ know. Her throat constricted at the prospect. Were he to discover it her fate might be one worse than death.

 _No_ , let Erik keep his secrets and she'd keep hers.

"Get as much sleep as you can, I won't hear excuses come morning."

"M-Morning?" she repeated as if she had never before heard the word in her life.

"Yes, and we leave before the sun rises."

"Leave? We two? _Together?_ " Her thoughts came as fast and cluttered as her speech.

In two strides he was towering over her, crushing her arms with a vice-like grip. " _If_ you persist in this imbecilic manner, I shall gag you, bind you and drag you _wherever_ I damn well please." he snarled. His grasp slackened gradually until he released her, " _Now_ , young master Daaé, I _suggest_ you get some sleep."

Frightened half out of her wits, she did as directed, dropping to the ground, untying and unfurling her bedroll. Rather than settling in, she gazed at it blankly whilst still kneeling on the rough wood floor. During the hectic flight through the jungle and subsequent conversation, her mind had been elsewhere. Now with no further distractions it returned to darkness, _to death_. Her makeshift bed transformed into the body of that man, throat slashed and bleeding, his glazed, lifeless eyes staring vacantly. Nauseated, Christine turned her head away so rapidly that her neck cramped.

"I don't think I can sleep." The words were uttered softly, barely a whisper.

"Did you expect a feather bed the Carlton?" he sneered, peering down at her loftily.

Heavy antipathy fuelled by exhaustion finally burst free from its dam. How dare he mock her, this creature who murdered without a care? Who was he to judge her? She doubted he had a beating heart in his breast, much less a soul. How could he begin to understand the horrors that visited her each time she closed her eyes, that would haunt her until her own dying day? Hot tears scalded her eyes until she relented and allowed them to pour down her cheeks.

"I don't care where I sleep!" she screamed, "Do you think this has _anything_ to do with comfort?! It wouldn't matter if I was offered a mattress of clouds and eiderdown or if I were to sleep in the dirt with roots and stones! Every time I close my eyes I see—"

"Death." Erik finished grimly.

She wiped her face with her sleeve angrily but didn't speak.

 _Monster_ : a versatile descriptor where he was concerned. It could be applied to his face, past, temper, personality, and actions— _every_ aspect of his person, really. Observing the crying broken thing in front of him, looking at that drawn face, those tortured brown eyes, the shoulders slumped with defeat, he was reminded of someone else: the reason he had become the beast he was today. He had been unable to save that boy; he would not make the same mistake twice. Erik cursed himself inwardly with the foulest, most vulgar oaths imaginable. A boy in a man's world. How had he forgotten?

Yet had he done nothing, the lad would be in a far worse predicament. Unfortunate as the outcome had been, in time he would come to accept that it was justified.

Remorse softened his calloused heart, infusing some humanity into his tone. "I apologize that you saw what you did. It was not my intention to frighten you."

"D-Do you ever stop seeing their faces?"

"Yes." He regarded her for a moment, his expression sincere, "Would you like something to help you sleep?"

A pause and a weary nod. Erik rummaged through his pack until he found a case of small, neatly packed vials.

"Here. It's a decoction containing valerian root." Christine took the bottle and analyzed it critically, turning it over in her fingers and holding it up to the lantern.

"It is not poison if that's your concern." he said with a touch of coldness.

"I know. Poison doesn't seem your modus operandi."

And so it wasn't. Though, if the boy knew of his time in Persia, he might not be so quick to accept; not that any of the poisons Erik had synthesized were for his own purposes. But he supposed that hardly mattered, regardless of whether or not _he_ had relied on them, they had still been used for the function of torture and death.

Christine threw back the mixture, her face contorting at the taste, removed her boots, and slipped into the bedroll. Already her eyes had begun to grow heavy. The draught was a potent one and soon she was drifting on the fringes of slumber, her mind temporarily at wonderful ease except for one, _minute_ bothersome realization.

"Erik?" It felt so funny using the Christian name of a man she had just met, so _intimate_ ; and much to her embarrassment, she found that she rather liked it.

"Young Daaé?"

"I never thanked you for saving my life."

She was unable to discern the individual words of his reply, only hazy mumbles, but nevertheless allowed the warm richness of his voice to wash over her as she sank fully into the waters of sleep.


	6. Dark and cheerless is the morn

**Let's see what the morning brings, shall we? ;)**

* * *

 **28 April - Day 1**

Only when he was positive the lad was asleep did Erik dare leave the shelter, stealing one last glance at the slumbering figure. There Christopher lay poised on his right side, pale face wearing a look of contentment and hands tucked under his chin; a few errant wispy curls had slipped loose and rested on unblemished skin. The boy was a portrait of innocence. In sleep he looked so small, so frail, so young, _so out of place_ in the harsh world, like a cherub frantically trying to navigate the fires of hell, flapping his tiny wings uselessly. And yet there was an inner-strength, a wild spirit within him, a fierce undercurrent in a seemingly glassy sea, one he had only just begun to tap into. In a way Erik was reminded of himself as a youth before he traded innocence for adventure.

Convinced that his companion was within the deepest recesses of drugged sleep, he slipped silently from the hut. There were several hours until dawn. He was glad the boy had accepted the sleeping draught, grateful for the window it afforded him to _tie things up_ , as it were. Making no more noise than the insects that hummed and chirped, he stalked back up the jungle path to the outskirts of Saint-Pierre, grabbing a shovel from a farmhouse shed along the way.

Minutes later he was standing in the place he had temporarily hidden the bodies. He hadn't intended on killing tonight. Naturally he had been prepared, he _always_ was, but had planned to slip into the underbrush with the boy long before the foul miscreants gotten through their first round of evening cups. Ideally the pair of them _should_ have absconded prior to anyone being the wiser but reality wasn't so easily guaranteed. Erik had not anticipated the enduring presence of that thrice-damned Raoul boy but soon learned, much to his immense displeasure, that the two were inseparable. So he was forced to alter his strategy to cleave the foppish duo apart. In the end he had succeeded but not without personal cost: his head was still tender and they had narrowly escaped with their lives.

The boy truly was more trouble than he was worth.

Digging was blessedly easy at least, the volcanic soil loose and loamy and the night air pleasant. One grave, another, then another, and another. By the fifth one sweat poured down his back in rivulets, his hands were chaffed and his muscles ached. Erik grimaced as the saltiness made contact with the wound on his chest. It had reopened at some point during his task, mingling with the sweat and blooming outward to form a pinkish stain at his breast; he should have thought to bandage or clean it at the minimum.

At last he finished the final hole and climbed out. Erik looked down at the body with contempt, lips curling into a moue of disgust at the fetid stink of death and shit; it was the titanic brute who had nearly bled him with his own knife, leaving him with a lovely souvenir carved into his flesh. In the end the cur had met with the lasso. Had it been a different time he wouldn't have ended it so quickly, he'd have given the filth a death admirable in its gruesomeness from one artist of torture to another. The corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction at seeing the purple lines of his artist's 'signature' etched around the thick, stumpy neck. He placed his foot on the corpse and gave it a robust shove into the grave, repacking the dirt firmly. Then, without sparing a backwards glance he wiped his boot sole upon some grass and walked away.

By the time he reached the isolated cane farm, he was fairly tired. Erik had never needed much sleep, it was but one of the many quirks that made him such a formidable hunter and (later) asset. However after a combination of intense physical exertion and excitement, even a man as extraordinary as he had reached his limit. Unfortunately fatigue made one careless. His hands had barely withdrawn from the shovel's handle when he heard voices, only just reaching the edge of the forest as they approached.

He froze, melting into the darkness and foliage. _Listening_ , _watching_ , Punjab in hand, ready to strike. Like a snake lying in wait he was: tense, hidden, hoping he would not be trod upon but prepared to attack if necessary. The culprits were two farm workers, undoubtedly making an early start of the day. One was slightly stooped with age and the other young, barely a man; they made an interesting contrast like him and the boy: Hades and Apollo.

"Damn barn is overrun with vermin, has been for near a week. Chewing up all the cane, you know. DuPont told me to put out poison and traps but I don't need to with all the snakes about, eat 'em quick as they come. Never seen anything like this, where'd they all come from you think?"

"It's that mountain, I tell you." said the older man.

"What? Peleé? You're as mad as the rest of 'em. It hasn't blown for thousands of years, they say. Why would it now?"

"These things are God's will, men can never understand why. But there's something amiss, I can feel it. Animals flooding the farms and town, the tremors, powdered ash, and that smoke grows thicker and blacker every day. I've heard tell of similar things happening other places before the mountain looses its wrath."

"Bah!" the youth dismissed, "Stories created to fool children and old men."

When their voices had faded, he slunk deeper into the jungle and down the trail he had come. The words of the old worker were weighted with somber heaviness, an augury of impending doom. No longer did he harbor demurral or delusions: it was a (short) matter of time before the volcano erupted. But erupt it would, he was sure of _that_. He was no expert in volcanology by any means, but he _had_ read the letters of Pliny the Younger as a boy and heard firsthand accounts of sailors who had witnessed Krakatoa and Tarawera firsthand.

Any logical mind could fit the pieces together: the quakes, fleeing animals, smoking vents, ash falling like rain, alternating periods of activity and inactivity; Mount Peleé was awakening and soon she'd refuse to be ignored. It would be wise to double their pace. He just hoped the boy would not be a detriment to his new plans, else they wouldn't be alive to worry about hired thugs or safe passage to England.

 **o o o**

Raoul de Chagny's eyelids rose haltingly. He tried in vain to time the action between the throbbing pulses in his head but was luckless in the endeavor and as reward was met with a fresh surge of smarting, skull-rending pain. To worsen matters, the moment he opened them his vision began to fluctuate making the entire room appear to be stuck in an unremitting mimicry of a pirouette. The room, that was yet _another_ thing. Disjointed as he was, he didn't recognize it; the crimson gaudiness was a far-cry from that of the platitudinous inn with its calm blues and bland whites. Had both bed and room not been spacious, he might have believed himself aboard another blasted ship with the way everything around him undulated. The mystery of his whereabouts of interest but not prudence in light of his aching head, he uttered a long groan interspersed with curses, flopping onto his stomach like an infant.

Surely he was dying. There was no feasible way he could be so miserable otherwise.

"Awake at last, love?"

The sound made him freeze but it was pleasing to his tortured ears. Carefully he moved his head to locate the voice. Until now he hadn't even considered that there were other inhabitants in the world, let alone in the room _with_ him. Raoul looked up to find a woman hovering over the bed and surveying him with mild amusement; the revelation was wholly unanticipated but not unwelcome. Despite his swimming eyesight he could discern she was rather comely: tall with skin of café au lait, flowing raven hair, a voluptuous figure, clever eyes the color of fine cognac, angular features bright with gaiety, and clothed only in a satin wrapper trimmed with lace. There were _certainly_ worse views to be had upon awakening from a binge.

He parted his lips to speak but only succeeded in emitting another piteous noise, his tongue unwilling to tackle the movements requisite for speech. Only then did he notice how dry his mouth was, like a stagnant roadside puddle in which some small vermin had bathed and used as a privy before dying and rotting away; the bitter, residual tang of emesis formed a vile patina on every surface. If he wasn't dying already, he definitely wished to be.

"You're a sorry sight and it's no wonder after that spree. Here, darling, drink this." A glass was raised to his lips, "Aspirin in water. It'll help with the migraine." she explained, noting his hesitancy.

Whoever this woman was, whether witch or healer, she was right. Within a short time the dreadful pounding subsided, not completely but enough to where he no longer felt in imminent danger of expiration.

"Thanks." he murmured gruffly.

"You'll want to drink more water if you can stand it, or I can bring you some tea; you'll feel better for it."

Again she was correct. After a cup of ginger tea and glass of water, he was beginning to feel human once more and was able to sit up.

"You're very hospitable, thank you. Are you a nurse?"

She laughed, pretty eyes twinkling with mirth. Raoul only stared back in confusion, unaware what aspect of his perfectly reasonable question was so humorous. "I'm not anything of the sort but I do know a thing or two about drink and curing the _ailments_ of men."

His eyes went wide, the implication of her words settling upon him. He was in a prostitute's boudoir. What on earth had transpired last night? Had he and she...? Concentrating mightily, he attempted to recall something, _anything,_ and was met with naught but a thick wall of blackness. Nevertheless he tried and tried, eventually stopping when his head began drubbing in warning. Raoul couldn't bear the shame of asking her. He was positive that _any_ woman, even in her profession, would be unhappy if it was hinted that her love-making was decidedly unmemorable, so he held his tongue in spite of the overwhelming curiosity.

"How much of last night do you remember?" she inquired, reading his confounded expression.

"Very little." Raoul confessed, glad she had broached the subject and didn't seem offended; conversely she was grinning.

"I'd be surprised if you did. You were three sheets to the wind, stumbled in here about the same time hell broke loose at the bar across the way."

"Did I?"

"Aye. I didn't want to leave you as you were, barely able to stand, and business was slow so I brought you in here to sober up."

"I pray I haven't made trouble for you. I'm obliged ... " he trailed off, hoping she would catch the prompt and supply a name.

"Madame Pasquier, but you may call me Héloïse. I am the mistress of this establishment, I can do as I please. Besides, your presence was not an _inconvenience_ in the least." She smiled then, leaving no ambiguity behind her statement.

So they had been _involved_.

This discovery was not at all unsatisfactory. Her profession aside, Héloïse was a beautiful woman, one any man would be proud to bed.

 _If Christine were to see him now_ , reeking of perfume and reeling from the after-effects of overindulgence... He could already see the judgment oozing from her dark eyes and quickly thought of more pleasant things. While he loved her dearly, regarding her as a younger sister, sometimes (more frequently than not) she could come off as a bit of a shrew and he was in no mood for such in his current state.

"Your English is very good. I don't think I could find it in myself to speak French presently."

Héloïse nodded. "My father was a captain in the English fleet. When maman died, he saw to my education; taught me Spanish and some Dutch too. After he died, I took the money he left me and went into business for myself; knowing several languages serves me well in a port town. I figured you'd be more comfortable in your native tongue."

"Again, thank you." Not liking how indebted he was to this kindly Madam, he changed the subject, "What sort of chaos happened at the bar last night? I think I remember being there at some point."

"Oh, just another brawl. There's one almost every other night. Some gang or another looking for a lad who owes them money; I wouldn't envy the boy when they find him. English like you, the poor bastard. Maybe you know him, his name was Christian or—"

"Christopher?" Raoul furnished, his lungs compressing as if he had been kicked in the chest by a horse.

"That may have been it."

 _Christine!_ How could he have forgotten? If anything had happened to her, he would march himself to the gallows in shame. _Damn him!_ He had one simple task: protect her. And apparently he had failed abysmally.

Forgetting his lack of wellness (and coordination), he was on his feet in a split second. He made it about four steps before the room rebelliously tilted taking his stomach with it and bringing him onto all fours, vomiting so forcefully he feared his eyes would pop out of his head and his ribs would shatter. Adding further insult to injury, his headache came crashing back angrily, the pain beating a fierce tattoo upon every inch of his skull. Spent, shaking, and stinking of sick he collapsed onto his side and sucked in painful gulps of air. With the sound of footsteps Raoul closed his watering eyes too humiliated and woebegone to interact with anyone.

"Care to explain your lapse in judgment?"

"No." he moaned, curling into a ball upon the rug.

" _Right._ Back to bed then, love."

An arm slipped under his own, lifting him onto quavering legs, and he leaned on its owner heavily. He was guided back to the bed, jerking and wavering like a newly born foal. Never had he felt so destitute and helpless, an overgrown babe needing the spittle wiped from his chin. With another dolorous groan he settled back into his earlier position, as if he could hide from the discomfort racking his body by making himself smaller.

"Your first experience with rum?" He nodded weakly and Héloïse giggled; Raoul hadn't the energy to scowl.

"It's plenty of rest for you then. I'll get you some more aspirin. Oh, and I'm sure your mate Christopher is just fine," she frowned, "though probably in dire straits same as you if he got into the rum."

As she left the room, he could not help but speculate over how much he'd be charged for this kindness. She came back a moment later with the promised drug and a mischievous glint in her eye, "Don't fret over payment, love, I'm sure we can work out an _arrangement_ when you're feeling right as rain again. I'll let you rest. There's a bell on your bed table should you need anything."

Raoul again wondered if Héloïse was a witch or sorceress, she _did_ seem to have an uncanny ability to read minds. This and a handful of other, equally ridiculous musings in his head, he fell into a light sleep.

 **o o o**

All too soon, Christine was crudely jostled awake, yanked out of the pleasant restfulness of heavy, dreamless sleep. The first words that came to the tip of her tongue were unfit for polite society. Normally they would have been uttered without pause but _something_ in that voice made her reconsider. She vaguely recognized it from another time and place, though unsure when or where.

"Come on, boy, this is _not_ your father's manor and you cannot linger abed. We need to depart immediately, it's already past dawn."

Only when he spoke again did everything come flooding back to her: the bar, being pursued, taking a captive, other men after her, the fight, death, running through the jungle, and _him_. _Him._ That infuriating, pompous arse of a man. Erik.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up indignantly crossing her arms about her chest.

"I'll go _nowhere_ with you until you tell me _why_ I should."

Erik sighed, massaging his temples. Already the morning was off to a _fine_ start. He felt like the nanny of a particularly reluctant, fretful toddler. It would not do to lose his temper, even _if_ he wanted to throttle the whelp from the first word it had breathed.

"Very well. You _should_ choose to accompany me because if you protest I will not hesitate to carry out my earlier threat." he replied with forced civility, quite proud of his restraint.

"You do not scare me, Erik." she sniffed, nose pitched in the air with false bravado. He took a menacing step towards her and she flinched leaving him practically glowing with triumph.

"And _you_ , as I've said before, are a ghastly liar."

With an annoyed huff, she kicked out of the cocoon of bedding and stood, glaring at him. " _And_ can _you_ blame me? You stalk me like an animal, telling me nothing other than a part of your name, and now you expect me to accompany you wherever you bloody well please! _Lord_ , I watched you kill a man last night! More than one. Having watched you fight, I can deduce that you are skilled— _trained_ , even, and your English is too good for that of a petty thug; it's apparent you are worldly and educated, so who or _what_ exactly are you?"

" _Well, well_ , _well..._ it appears that your head is _not_ so prodigiously barren after all, young Daaé." Had he been anyone else, she might have believed him to be impressed. "There are criminals who have discovered your father's wealth; they seek to abduct and ransom you back to him for a princely fee. As such, you are no longer safe on this island. I have been charged by those concerned for your well-being to escort you back to England. Does _that_ satisfy enough to get you through the door before the sun rises and _sets_ as well?"

She nodded, knowing the time wrong to pry further, though it would gnaw at her the entire day.

" _Excellent_. I am truly _overjoyed_ to hear it." he drawled sarcastically, tossing two fat rolls of cloth at her, "Here, wrap these about your calves and overlap the top of your boots."

"What are these?" she inquired, studying the rough cotton, its width similar to her palm.

"Puttees; they will provide protection from the underbrush."

"Oh. I don't think I'll be needing those; I have trousers, you see." Christine held out one trouser-clad leg, pointing at it for illustration.

"I _hadn't_ noticed. You forget which one of us holds field experience. It matters not if you are wearing breeches, trousers, or skirts, you _will_ wear them. Now put on your boots and wrap your legs whilst I pack."

Grumbling, she did as instructed, struggling with the leg wraps but not daring to ask for help. Afterwards she inspected her appearance, wrinkling her nose at the filth that had accumulated on her shirt. Once ivory it was now a dull, greyish color adorned with various stains and sporting several rips and snags. _A perfectly good shirt ruined!_ And now her _only_ one. By the time they arrived wherever, it would likely be in tatters. _Damn him!_ If he hadn't been in such a rush, she could have grabbed additional garments. It was just one more reason (amid a growing list) to dislike this man.

"Am I expected to undertake this trip with only the clothes on my back or will we seek out a tailor along the way?"

Something large and cloth was shoved into her chest in response, its weight nearly causing her to topple backward: a rucksack of crude serge. Military issue, if she wasn't mistaken. What did he expect her to do with this? Put it on? Hold it while he packed?

"What is—"

"Your clothes, little prince." He interrupted with a curt, mocking bow.

" _My ... clothes?_ "

" _Good God_ , am I to repeat _every_ bloody word I utter today?! YES, _your_ clothes as in the ones taken from _your_ room at the inn. _All_ accounted for and _all_ in there." Christine opened her mouth but he held up a hand, "And before you think to launch another round of asinine queries... _Yes_ , your room _has_ been emptied; the rest of your non-crucial belongings _are_ on a steamer bound for England; and three notes penned in _your_ hand have been left: one for the old fool Professor, another for your foppish chum, and a third containing a false trail in the event _others_ should go looking for you. As far as anybody knows Christopher Daaé is no longer on Martinique, so roll up your bed and don your goddamn rucksack or I _will_ leave you where you stand gaping like a witless carp!" He brushed past her roughly, his arms laden with the stuff she had spied in the corner last night.

 _Her room had been packed up, her clothes and personal effects either shipped back home or stuffed into a bag; letters, forged obviously, had been written to those few who might notice her absence._

An abundance of emotions assaulted her. _Outrage. Gratitude. Confusion. Respect. Embarrassment._ How dare he touch her things without permission! Although it _was_ thoughtful of him to see to her comfort. When had he the time to do all of this? It _was_ an accomplishment, to be sure. But he, a man, had rifled through her clothes and touched her unmentionables.

On the last note, she was glad she had only brought men's clothing; there would have been nothing to give her away. Deciding it best to keep her head down following Erik's outburst she joined him outside the shack, bedroll tied tightly and rucksack perched upon her back. She hadn't anticipated the weight of the latter and was still in the process of acclimating when he noticed her.

"Nice of you to join me."

His smirk faded into a frown. "That is far from full. It will be interesting to see how you fare on a trek through the jungle if you can barely handle a pack at half-weight. Should I just unpack your litter now and round up some slaves to carry you, little prince?"

"I AM _NOT_ A LITTLE PRINCE!" she screamed, unable to stay quiet in the face of this horrid boor. Perhaps she'd be better served surrendering to those hunting her, she doubted they would be _half_ as irritating as him.

He laughed. It was melodic, grating, and rich all at the same time. She both abhorred and found comfort in it, like every element of his voice and (if she was being honest) person.

"Can we at _last_ set off?" she snapped, "You've been making a fuss over it for the past twenty minutes and yet I am the only one ready." She shouldn't have said anything.

Erik then scrutinized her every aspect, azure eyes roving over her face, arms, torso, thighs, _and..._

"Those are not wrapped correctly, they will come undone."

Recovering from the intensity of his gaze, she dimly noted he had indicated her leg wraps, her ears still burning with a steady fire that was spreading down her jaw and into her cheeks; she ascribed it to those unusual eyes.

In their short time together Christine had concluded that his eyes were the most unsettling part about him. Uniquely pretty though they were, ever-changing in the light, there was an eerie omniscience within them as if he could unravel her very soul were she to stare into them long enough.

"Well, _forgive me_ for doing something wrong when I received no prior instruction other than 'wrap your legs'."

"Sit down and let me see."

The first rays of the sun had started to penetrate the forest around them, peeping through any space it could find amongst the snarl of branches, leaves and vines, when Christine seated herself upon a rock and stuck out her right leg testily nearly kicking him in the face when he squatted in front of her. _Too bad it missed_ , she thought evilly. Still fantasizing about doing him bodily harm, she was wholly unprepared when he grabbed her ankle and forced her foot onto his knee.

" _W-Wha—_ "

"Keep still, boy. I won't hurt you. I'm going to wrap your legs; pay attention so that you will learn."

With a surprisingly gentle touch, he unwound the puttees from one calf and then the other, re-rolled the cloth and began anew. Starting at her shin he wrapped the fabric's loose end around her leg, holding it in place with one large hand as he made two passes overlapping her boot top and continued up her calf. The entire process was carried out in slow, deliberate quiet. No words were spoken but periodically he would bring his eyes up to hers, ensuring she was following. It was the absolute opposite of comfortable, agonizingly so. And worse still, Christine couldn't pinpoint _why_. Only knowing she would have preferred a detailed, droning vocal instruction to whatever _this_ was.

"Where are we going?" she ventured, wanting, _needing_ a diversion.

"There is a small port to the south on the windward side of the island, we will set off from there. It's approximately forty miles but the terrain is rough; we can make it within the week." he answered, tying the cotton tape snugly under her left knee and standing back up.

"FORTY MILES?!" she yelped, "That's absurd! Surely there is a closer port, what of Saint-Pierre? If everybody believes I've already left, couldn't we just slip away at night? There's plenty of steamers and—"

Instantly he rounded on her, hovering close as he had the night before. This time he did not seize her; he did not need to, she was already terrified and listening with rapt attention. " _Keep_ trying my patience, little prince, and you will _sorely_ regret it. We _are_ hiking to a village in Sainte-Anne, and _that_ is the end of it. If your legs prove _half_ as eager as your mouth, we will arrive in record time." Turning away, he concentrated on securing his own pack.

" _Fine_. But what of Raoul? We should go back and make sure he's all right before leaving."

Again he approached, this time with a rope in hand. _This was it_ , she had pushed him too far. Christine instinctively backed away but rather than gagging her he simply tied it about her waist, its other end already attached to him. "So you do not fall. It's a treacherous walk for the inexperienced." he supplied, reading her expression.

"As for your friend, his fate is of no concern to me; I've not been charged with the boy's safety, only yours."

They set off then, leaving Christine plodding after him miserably like a bedraggled old mule.

Their path was damp and overgrown and progress was slow. She could tell this irritated him to no end, as evinced by the multitude of times he pushed her aside to hack at the underbrush with a machete in hopes of making the landscape easier to traverse; she also got the impression she was blamed for their lethargic pace and hearing his every huff, grunt, and swear secretly gladdened her.

She could not think of another soul on whom she'd wish more difficulty and amused herself by asking him questions. Besides annoying him, they served as a distraction from her burning leg muscles, cramping shoulders, and pained lungs.

 _Who sent you to retrieve me? Why didn't my father just write explaining the situation?_

 _How did you get into my room? When did you have time to pack my things? How did you forge my hand?_

 _Where did you learn to fight? Are you a soldier? Were you in the conflict in southern Africa?_

 _Have you been to Martinique before?_

"Since I'll get nothing otherwise, I suppose I'll begin answering _for_ you."

"Are you ever silent?" he finally snapped.

"Not when I can see how much it vexes you..." she whispered smugly under her breath.

At last, when she felt she would drown in her own sweat, they stopped. Christine glanced around her, the sun was low and they were in a small clearing.

"We shall make camp here. Drop your pack and make yourself useful."

She did as ordered, making herself indispensable for the next half hour. Together they set up camp in silence, each of them in want of a filling meal and soft place to sleep after a hard day's hike. After all tasks were completed, Christine stood back and admired the effort; they made an efficient pair when not bickering. There was only one problem.

"Where is my tent?"

"We will share a tent."

"B-B-But that's hardly p-proper!" she squeaked before she could stop herself.

He gave her a curious look that melded into a grin, " _Why?_ Does it discomfit you to sleep in such close proximity to a criminal?"

"No. It just seems rather ... _tiny_ is all." she said lamely, fully aware she could not reveal the true origin behind her unease. What was the harm in it? They had separate bed rolls and she had slept alone with him the previous night. _Yes, but you weren't crammed into a space barely large enough for one last night,_ her mind added. Well, there was nothing for it, she would have to endure. Besides, he wouldn't touch her so long as he still believed her to be a boy.

 _But if he found out... No_ , she refused to think on it, focusing instead on finishing her dinner of tinned meat and beans. Night had been upon them for a little over two hours and she had just grown accustomed to the fire's warmth when Erik reached for a bucket of dirt.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Smothering the fire. The air is relatively clear tonight and prolonged smoke might draw unwanted attention."

"It's _your_ fault if there are more of those scoundrels after us. Perhaps they are out for revenge."

"No, little prince, the fault is _your_ father's." Christine jumped up, reeling with incredulous fury. He dared bring her dear, kind papa into this? It was slander, it was _blasphemy._ She wouldn't stand for it from anyone _especially_ this reprobate.

"How _dare_ you impugn my father's character? He is a thousand times the man _you_ are, you ... _you_ —" she shrieked.

Erik looked up; his eyes narrowed, darkened to a Payne's grey and reflecting the orange glow of the flames, like burning stone. "You'd be wise _not_ to finish that sentence, _boy_." The words were carried on a soft, louring hiss. An explicit warning that she was too enraged to heed.

"My father had nothing to do with this! He has no dealings in the Caribbean. He does not gamble or swindle, nor is he involved in any other _disreputable_ activities unlike a great many _other_ men."

"Your father had _everything_ to do with it!" he snarled, "Gustave Daaé's witless pottering in politics has brought the wrath of England's most despicable criminal organizations upon his, and by extension _your_ , head. You are merely a means of making a statement. A _statement_ I doubt you wish to be apart of as it will guarantee you meet with a rather lurid end. I was tasked with retrieving and returning you to your grand estate in Oxfordshire so that no such fate will befall your ungrateful, spoilt hide."

"T-They wanted to kill me?" Her eyes widened with knowledge of this harsh new reality.

"Torture first, I think." Erik was leering wickedly, "Perhaps send you back to sweet, bungling papa, _piece by piece_."

"You are a _horrible_ man." she whispered.

He only shrugged indifferently, " _Maybe_ , but _I_ _am_ your sole chance for survival at present."

Christine spun and hurried into the tent without another word, hoping he would not see the hot, fat tears flowing down her cheeks. Loath as she was to admit it, his observation was inarguable. She was halfway up a mountain, in the middle of a jungle, on an unfamiliar island and she hadn't the slightest idea how to navigate or survive in the wilderness. Plants were the only familiarity out here but knowing their Latin names wouldn't get her very far.

For the first time in her life she felt helpless and stupid and weak. This was the _real_ world and she was struggling, _foundering_. Academia, all that she had devoted her life to, was meaningless out here. Never had she encountered a problem that couldn't be solved by books. _Until now._ A spring of malice bubbled within her. Christine despised herself for being useless and him for knowing so, but _most_ _of all_ she detested herself for having to rely on a man like a clichéd damsel in distress.

Addled and nauseated she climbed into her bedroll, not bothering to stem the tears that soaked her little pillow. Not since girlhood had she cried herself to sleep but she suspected it might become something of a commonality on this trip.

* * *

 **Told you to keep that volcano in mind. Looks like Erik definitely is.**

 **So a bit of a rough start for poor Christine, Erik really isn't making this easy on her. Aside from that he's been rather a dick, hasn't he? But props to her for not taking** _ **too**_ **much of his crap. Not to worry, though, things won't be like this forever. They will have to start getting along** _ **eventually**_ **(or will they?).**

 **Poor Raoul! Hangovers are the worst but at least he has a new friend to help him through. ;) I bet none of you saw that one coming. He's actually a pretty decent guy when he's not in love with Christine and competing with Erik for her affection.**

 **A/N: The aforementioned letters by Pliny are those of Pliny the Younger concerning his uncle's (Pliny the Elder) death during the 79 AD eruption of Mount Vesuvius. It is the only surviving eyewitness account of the eruptions and renowned for the accuracy of its description, so much so that volcanologists dubbed eruptions of the same type, 'Plinian'.**

 **As for the two eruptions mentioned...**

 **Krakatoa (Indonesia) erupted in 1883 and destroyed over 70% of itself (it was an island) and the surrounding archipelago. It's still regarded as one of the deadliest and most violent eruptions in recorded history. Over 30,000 people died in the combination of pyroclastic flows and tsunamis. To this day some villages in Java have not been rebuilt. The effects of the eruption were felt throughout the world causing a decrease in global temperatures, spectacular sunsets, and a darkened night sky. Fun fact: Krakatoa's eruption was classified as 'Ultra Plinian'.**

 **Tarawera erupted in 1886 and was one of New Zealand's largest eruptions. It split the mountain and created a volcanic rift valley, destroyed natural wonders, and buried Māori villages in debris, ash, and mud 66 ft deep. Around 120 people were killed. It was also a Plinian eruption.**


	7. Misus and Mopsa hardly could agree

**A/N: I've decided to start labelling chapters with the date/day of the journey (more for my benefit).**

 **Thanks for the lovely reviews as always! :D**

* * *

 **29 April - Day 2**

It was nearly noon the day _next_ when Raoul finally walked into his room in the quaint, homey inn. After a day of rest and plenty of bland foods, aspirin, herbs and fluids his 'nurse' had at last declared him fit for discharge. _Well_ , she had technically deemed him fine the previous evening but neither of them believed another night abed would hurt; not that there had been much resting involved. A boyish grin lit his features at the memory and his chest expanded slightly before his shoulders sagged and his strut became more of a trudge.

Though able to function without doubling over and seeing the world around him from a vantage point aboard a giant carousal ride, his body was still shaky and fatigued. He wasn't a stranger to drink but two nights past had been a definite first and he was not at all keen to repeat the experience. Why had he been foolish enough to drink half a bottle of rum?

Eyeing his haggard reflection in the looking glass he recalled a night two summers ago in Paris. His brother, Phillipe, had sought out the seedier side of Montmartre with some friends and returned to the home they were renting absolutely stewed on absinthe. He walked in the door singing some bawdy melody in French, cheeks and collar dotted with lip rouge, clothes reeking of smoke and perfume, attempted to scale the stairs and fell with a grand smack onto the marble. His nose snapped like a twig and the servants never quite got all of the blood out of the carpet; mother had been furious. Not that women and drink were alien to Phillipe, this had just been one of his more _undignified_ hours.

Christ, he was turning into his brother!

Raoul threw a longing glance at the bed that beckoned him, begging him to lie down for a short spell, and quickly shook his head to ward off temptation. He had other, more important things to see to, things like his closest friend, his closest friend whose welfare had been entrusted to him by her father: Christine. Praying that she had not come to harm he exited his own room and walked down the hall to hers hesitating in front of her door.

Happy as he was to be relatively improved health and able to see Christine, he dreaded having to explain his absence over the past two nights. He had mulled extensively over what excuse to give ranging from his drunkenly wandering the beach and losing his way to renting a room above the bar to sleep off the spirits.

Eventually he decided upon neither. What then could he say? She knew he had no friends or family anywhere remotely nearby, meaning any explanation of the sort was not an option. He could simply tell her that he had met a woman. It wasn't an untruth, he _had_ met a woman, a woman whose profession was completely irrelevant. There would be questions of course, loads of questions. _Always_ there were questions with her. Raoul knew he could not begin to field all of them; eventually the truth would out. Christine, to her credit and his current chagrin, was far too shrewd to be so easily duped.

The judgment would follow immediately thereafter. He remembered her reaction when his brother had come home vehemently arguing with his Oxford chum over which brothel was the finest in Paris; she never spoke to Phillipe after that and was quite expressive with her views on 'whore mongers'. Then again, she had never been the biggest fan of the elder de Chagny, so perhaps she wouldn't be overly harsh on him.

Besides, he could always grovel if all else failed. Christine was sometimes priggish but on the whole she was a sweet, compassionate girl who tolerated him admirably. Was this offense _truly_ any worse than the time he had put a beetle in her hair? His confidence buoyed, he prepared to knock.

"Oh, Randall! I've not seen you for a few days, have you been ill?"

 _Randall?_ He rolled his eyes. There was only _one_ person who bungled his name that badly. Sure enough, Raoul turned to see Professor Harding strolling towards him.

"I have, yes." _Well,_ it was not a _total_ lie.

"Hm. You still look a bit peaky." the old man said, surveying him, "You'll need to be more mindful of your health, my boy, you won't find any London physicians here. Anyways, terrible shame about Christopher, isn't it? He was a very enthusiastic lad, quite an intellectual mind and a natural aptitude for botany. It's a pity he went to school in America, I would have loved to have him in my courses."

Cold panic ran down his body, immersing him in a frigid pond of dread and freezing his tongue in place for a short while.

"Pardon, sir, but _what_ is a shame?" he asked, not wanting to know, not sure if he could live with the answer.

"He didn't tell you? I got the letter just yesterday. Apparently something has happened involving his father that required his immediate return to England. He received the telegram late Sunday night and departed first thing yesterday morning. It was all very sudden from what he said, only had time to grab his clothes and write an explanation, had the hotel pack the remainder of his belongings and ship them behind him."

"No, he did not. I was visiting a friend when I fell ill and haven't had contact with him since Sunday evening. Would you mind terribly showing me the letter?"

Professor Harding nodded sympathetically, "Not at all, dear boy, not at all. Although, I believe he wrote you one as well and I daresay yours might be more informative as the two of you were close."

"He did?"

"Yes, the front desk has it."

Without another word he sprinted down the stairs, nearly bowling over a couple in his flight. By the time he reached the front desk, he felt like he had run the entire length of the island; he was still not fit for such exertion but hardly paid attention.

"You ... have ... a letter ... for me ... I ... _believe._ Raoul ... de Chagny." he panted, ignoring the look of patent disapproval he received.

"You are Raoul de Chagny?"

"Yes!"

"I have your letter here, _yes_."

It took a Herculean effort to not shout at the innkeeper to give him the blasted letter and be quicker about it. Teeth grinding, he patiently waited for the man to locate and present the missive, his nerves a bit of string being stretched tighter and tighter. Soon he would snap, if he didn't first wear his teeth down to the gum.

"Here we are, sir. A letter from one Mr Christopher Daaé."

" _Thank you._ " he ground out as evenly as possible.

Then, not caring about decorum, Raoul tore up back up to his room as fast as he had come down and slammed the door behind him. He didn't bother using a letter opener, instead tearing into the envelope like a madman and unfolding the paper so violently he nearly ripped it.

* * *

 _Dearest Raoul,  
_

 _I regret being unable to provide you an explanation in person, but I'm afraid everything transpired with an abruptness that would make such impossible. Tonight upon returning to my room I found my window open and an anonymous note upon the desk, its contents of a most threatening character._

 _Somehow a reprehensible gang of criminals has discovered that I am the child of Gustave Daaé and plan to abduct and ransom me back to my father for an egregious sum. Of these intentions, I must confess, I am not positive, however they seem logical given the ambiguously menacing tone of the aforementioned note, which has sufficiently unnerved me to the point where I see no other recourse but to quit the island forthwith. I dare not make any further mention of my travel arrangements or any other information of a sensitive nature which might be intercepted and used against me, my father, or, God forbid, you. I've written to Professor Harding as well but kept things purposely vague. Regarding this letter I ask you to keep the truth of my departure to yourself and make no mention of me to anyone even if prompted. I do not wish to risk your well-being and could never live with myself if these monsters were to seek you out to uncover my whereabouts.  
_

 _I'll conclude this letter by assuring you of my safety. Please do not labor under the delusion that I am in need of rescuing; you've always tended towards rashness, my friend. Stay and enjoy the Caribbean beauty for my benefit, I beg of you. It is my deepest regret that I must leave it behind and I shall not ever forgive you if you do as well under the pretext of a needless crusade in chivalry. I will write you once I am back in Oxfordshire and I expect no less than to be fully regalled when you return at the end of your three month stay. Be forewarned that I demand such detailed descriptions Emerson and Thoreau will seem sparing by comparison. So committed to this request am I, that I shall even permit you to include stories of your entomological pursuits within tasteful limitations, of course._

 _Yours,_

 _Christopher_

* * *

As he finished reading, it was difficult to resist the smile that sprung up alongside a wave of serene relief. Christine was alive and well after all, her exposition intersecting perfectly with what Héloïse had told him the day before. If he had harbored any doubts as to the authenticity of Professor Harding's letter they were promptly dispelled by the one still clutched in his right hand. It was so very _her_ that it could not possibly be a forgery. He had known her from the time they were babes, not a soul on earth could have captured her essence or that cherished camaraderie between them but her. Though he felt a pang of remorse that she could not stay, it _was_ her dream, he was not the least bit forlorn that she was secure and unscathed.

At peace once more Raoul beamed effusively at the bed only too glad to sink into its soft embrace.

 **o o o**

Morning came early in the mountains. Maybe it was the gradual lightening of sky or choir of birdsong that chased sleep away, Christine could not say for certain, all she _knew_ was that she was awake and every inch of her body was weighted with lead. Even her face was affected, swollen and heavy from hours of crying. Blessedly she was alone in the tent and did not bother to hide her contentment with the fact. She was not possessed of any particular desire to see or speak with Erik after last night and took meticulous care in dressing in a fresh shirt, lacing her boots, and rolling up her bed. After she had gathered enough conviction she emerged from the tent, head held high.

"You're awake." Erik was sitting on fallen tree, fastening his gaiters, the typical miasma of arrogance hanging thick about him even at this hour. Christine gritted her teeth, she had hoped for a small reprieve but it was evidently not to be.

" _Obviously._ " she spat, awaiting the caustic reply that was all-but guaranteed, "May we skip the _pleasantries_ and just eat?"

"If you so desire."

Instead of seeking out his pack, he approached her. She stepped backwards uneasily, loathing the way he fed off of intimidation; she'd never grow accustomed to the way he skulked about like some wretched creature from myth. Christine glared back not wanting to give him a bully's satisfaction, an impasse therein followed. Both stared, neither moved. They had been in this position twice before: the first time he had grabbed and shook her and the second he had only threatened verbally. What would he do this third time? It barely registered amidst her frightened disquiet that she was close, _improperly close_ , to a man, to this dangerous, _murderous_ rogue masked—literally and figuratively—in mystery. She tried to stand resolute, to hide her nervousness but the strange tingling radiating outwards from her stomach, fluttering like a million moths into her every limb, made it nigh impossible.

Finally when she thought she might need to fall to the ground and crawl, drag herself away from him and those accursed haunting eyes, he reached into the air beside her head and pulled away, his hand now clutching something wrapped in brown paper. He appraised her a moment longer with that inscrutable mien.

"You still believe I will harm you, young Daaé. Perhaps this might help gain your trust." The words were thoughtful, _reflective_ , spoken softly as if meant for his ears alone. Erik took her hand and placed the package into her palm. "Open it." he prompted.

Still unnerved, Christine peeled back the paper to reveal a fat, golden currant bun, almost dropping it in surprise.

"What's this?"

"Do you suffer from poor eyesight, little prince? It's quite clearly a pastry."

"I _see_ as much." she groused.

"Then why pose such an idiotic query? I was under the impression you wanted breakfast."

"I did, yes. Forgive me, I forgot the necessity for _absolute_ clarity where you're concerned. I meant to ask _where_ it came from and _why_ you've given it to me."

"Those questions were not at all implied."

"Would you mind terribly just answering? I've no wish to start the morning with another of those migraines that tend to follow our conversations."

" _Gladly._ " There was an edge to his voice, "It came from a bakery in town and I thought you might enjoy it. Does _that_ satisfy?"

Not pausing for a response he turned his attention to packing away the tent. As she watched him fold the canvas, she couldn't help the stinging discomfort that needled her innards, not quite guilt but unpleasant nonetheless. He had tried to do her a kindness and her reaction had been rather _rude_. The sensation was magnified when she took the first bite of sweet bread, slightly hard and on the verge of staleness but entirely wonderful, a definite improvement upon the previous day's breakfast of tinned milk and hard biscuits. She was stunned by his gesture. What had he meant by it? It seemed much too thoughtful for the crude, abrasive man she had spent the past day and a half with. _Mayhap you judged him too harshly_ , her mind posited.

And perhaps she _had_.

 _Perhaps_ there was more to Erik than previously thought. Christine pondered the subject as she put on her leg wraps; she still hadn't mastered the task and had to restart several times, growing frustrated after the third attempt. How could something so simple in theory be so difficult in practice? _Drat!_ He had made it look so easy. Would she ever get the gist of this?

Loosing a cry of exasperation she dropped a wrap on the ground and gave it a solid kick; her irritation unraveled alongside the cloth, imbuing her with satisfaction in destruction.

"Sit."

Erik was holding the discarded puttee and picking leaf litter from it. His command was issued in a single tense word and she answered with one equally terse and clipped.

"Why?"

"Allow me to do that, you're struggling."

"I'm fine, _thank you_." she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Don't be prideful. You're in obvious need of aid."

" _Don't be prideful?_ " Christine laughed in his face, "Coming from _you_ that's like an inebriate labelling another man a drunkard after one bad spree."

"Sit!" he barked impatiently.

"I'm _not_ a bloody dog!"

" _No,_ " he mused, "dogs are far _more_ obedient, far _less_ stubborn, and do not dispute their master's commands. Were you a dog and not an irksome little fop, I would be much more contented for it. _Jubilant_ , even. Now do as you are told and sit down."

She complied, throwing him a look of pure venom as she did, letting him wrap her calves for the second day and ultimately recognizing it as his effort at a truce, like the pastry. Again his pace was painstakingly slow; again his eyes flickered up to hers and held her gaze; and again she felt that unfamiliar feeling wherever he made contact, efflorescing from where his hand rested, each brush of his fingers sowing a new, creeping sensation until her entire leg prickled and smouldered. It did not stop even when it reached the topmost point where leg intersected hip, climbing upwards still and settling in her stomach. Christine wanted to say something, _to yell in frustration_ , but no sound emerged. She needed noise! This loaded silence was oppressive. Why didn't he speak? Couldn't he see she was going mad?

"Are the puttees hurting you?"

" _I don't..._ what?"

"Are they too tight? Your legs are shaking." He was composed, a touch puzzled but clearly unaffected.

 _Unlike her._ Only she was influenced. But why? It was terrifying and objectionable, a foreign plague for which doctors had neither name nor cure. She prayed it would resolve itself but her hopes appeared futile; every touch, whether willful or not, worsened the affliction a little more.

"No. I am just eager to leave. The sooner we set off, the sooner I can enjoy my sparse hours of leisure before restarting the cycle."

"Very well. As the little prince demands..." He bowed and adjusted the Sam Browne belt about his waist, fastening a rather large knife onto the frog at his hip.

"Do I get one too?"

Erik let out a mad chuckle as if she had told a particularly funny joke, tapering off when he realized her question had been in earnest.

"Absolutely _not_." came his succinct reply.

"And why not?" her eyes narrowed, "Afraid I will use it against you?" She would _never_ , of course. _Yes_ , she had struck him on the head with the grip of Raoul's pistol but that had been before she knew he was her ally. And _yes_ , she had dreamt of striking him over and over, but she wouldn't intentionally injure him. Even though she'd rather be in the company of most any other person on the planet and violently despised him, the man _had_ saved her life and such a debt engendered loyalty. _Even_ _if_ it was reluctantly given.

His forehead wrinkled and Christine could just glimpse a dark brow peeking out from the top of the mask. "Not at all. I am simply not in the habit of entrusting weapons to children."

"Difficult as it may be for you to grasp I am _not_ a dog nor am I a child."

"Regardless of what _you_ believe, young Daaé, you've no experience with a blade _nor_ any other weapon, as you proved twice-over with both your pistol and mine."

"All right. You've made your point."

"Have I? I am positively stupefied."

"Yes. I just thought it might be useful if I needed to defend myself."

"From what? So long as I am breathing you needn't worry for your safety."

"Is that a written fact?" she jibed acerbically.

"Let us call it a promise."

Something powerful, meaningful, _inexplicable_ passed between them then. The deep, resonant chord struck by his comment caught her out, startling her and like a spooked horse she bolted towards another topic selecting the first that came to mind.

"Do you have a surname or is Erik more of a title?"

"Why do you have a pressing desire to know?" he returned, his countenance nonplussed; presumably owing to her hurried subject change. He must think her unhinged. _Not_ that he thought of her at all... unless contemplating the ways in which she was a burden.

"I don't. I just figured it would be fair considering you already know so much about me. We are to be spending an abundance of time together and I know nothing of you other than your first name."

An interlude of deliberation before he said: "Grey."

 _Erik Grey_. Such a normal sounding name, deceptively so for anyone who knew of what he was capable.

It was the last thing she managed to wheedle out of him before they began the second leg of their trek.

Today's hike was much the same as yesterday's: hot, sweaty, gruelling, and uphill. Her muscles were quick to voice their displeasure, a new, searing ache exploding within them with every step and every shift of her rucksack. By the time they reached Sainte-Anne, she really _would_ resemble a man with all of the muscle she was sure to develop.

But now there was _another_ , unrelated ache blossoming in her lower half. Fresh panic tugged at her, she couldn't ask him to stop not when they had done less than an hour previous; she would just need to stop drinking and put it from mind. However, try as she did it grew harder to overlook as the minutes passed; until they eventually blended into a timeless loop of agony that jostled her bladder each time she moved. Gradually her pace slowed and a cold sweat broke upon her forehead. Christine did everything in her power _not_ to think of the droplets running down her face, running, _running... free and loose and flowing._ The discomfort became so great that moisture began to well in her eyes. _Moisture._ She closed them in disgusted response. God Almighty, why did _everything_ have to do with thrice-damned water?!

"What the devil is the matter with you?"

Christine opened her eyes to see Erik staring at her wearing a purely baffled look; he was around fifteen feet ahead of her, the rope connecting them pulled taut, she wasn't aware she had even stopped walking. She realized she had to tell him otherwise she'd explode. That's if the embarrassment of her predicament did not strike her down first.

"Um, I-I need to..." she began, unsure how on earth she should phrase it. This was _not_ a matter for conversation, polite or otherwise. It was a taboo like all inevitable bodily functions, simply never discussed with _anyone_.

"Need to what?"

"I have to... _you know..._ "

"No, I do not know. _If_ I did, what I would _not_ need to do is _ask_."

Count on him to make a delicate situation impossible. Another man might have stopped there but not _him_ , _never Erik_. Forced to choose between her pride and her bladder overflowing, she made one last attempt at subtlety.

"I have to _go ..._ "

"And yet here you stand, unmoving and gawking like a complete buffoon."

"I NEED TO PISS!" she screeched, her fists balled at her sides. A hand flew to her mouth, clapping over it as if she had cursed the Lord in front of the entire Church of England. Maybe Raoul had been somewhat validated in his earlier criticism of her swearing. Her governesses, along with every fine lady who ever knew her would have fainted dead away upon hearing Christine Daaé spout such crass vulgarity. Although, they might have been just as likely to faint had they seen her present state.

He regarded her strangely, as one might a rambling crackpot. "There's a tree right there." he said blandly.

"I can't. _I..._ You're here."

"I'll turn my back if privacy is such a pressing issue. Be quick about it, we've miles to go yet."

"No! I'm not able to ..." _Well_ , she couldn't reveal the _real_ reason, could she? "... _go_ with someone near."

" _For the love of God_ , unhitch yourself and go into the bushes then!"

She did not need to be told twice and scurried away as soon as the words had left his lips, concealing herself deep within the underbrush in the event he decided to follow. The relief was so tremendous that had some divine being floated down from heaven and made itself known to her, she would not have had awe to spare.

"I trust you'll live then?" Erik asked upon her reemergence from the jungle.

"Unfortunately for you, _yes_." Christine jested, her good spirits a side-effect of relief.

"Your death would not be fortunate for me or anyone else." he said seriously, his mouth stretched in an austere line.

"Really?"

"Yes. Were you to die, I would not be compensated."

" _Selfish arse!_ " she roared, taken in by his pretense of caring. He only laughed and walked away, easily dodging the stick she chucked at him.

Again the game of questions was played and again there were no answers to be had. However talking, even to a wall (or Erik's back in this case), proved a decent way to pass the time and keep her mind off her savagely protesting body. This time she concentrated on personal queries, firmly of the view that if she were to spend any extended period with him, she should learn more about his character, learn more about _him_ past and present. She still found him every bit as godawful as she did hitherto but animosity offered no detraction from a slowly growing fascination. He was more alike a character in a novel than a living, breathing person and for a sheltered girl who had only spent time in the company of harmless, effete gentlemen, Erik was a riveting anomaly.

 _Where were you born? London, obviously, given your accent, but there's a trace of something else there._

 _Have you traversed the globe? How many languages do you speak?_

 _How old are you? Were you raised in England? Have you any siblings?_

 _What exactly is your profession? Are you a soldier turned mercenary? Or a spy like the protagonist in Kipling's novel?  
_

Tonight the questions did not conclude with the hike and continued long into the evening, outlasting even the daylight and rattling on through dinner. She asked too many to commit to memory and ended up accidentally repeating herself more than once; something Erik caught. Though, Christine wasn't upset overmuch because it meant he _had_ heard.

"You've asked the same thing yet again. If I did not answer the first two times, _why_ would I do so _now?_ "

" _Omne trium perfectum_ , as they say. Three is possibly the _most_ significant number there is to mankind, it spans boundaries both religious and cultural. In Christian belief alone there is the Holy Trinity, Jesus rising the third day after his death, the Devil tempting Jesus thrice, and so on. And Shakespeare said that 'there's divinity in threes, either in birth, chance, or dying' and I happen to personally believe that third time's the—"

"Christ! Does your tongue _ever_ cease wagging?" he interrupted, pressing his fingers to his temples.

"Are you affronted by the superstition or perplexed by the Latin?" Christine retorted placidly. With respect to questioning, annoying Erik was tied as her favorite pastime.

"If anything is _affronting_ , it's this endless barrage and your detestable handling of Shakespeare's, _The_ _Merry Wives of Windsor_. I _believe_ the quote you were striving for, and defectively so, was: 'they say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death'. Mere superstition, all of it. And as they _also_ say, _m_ _obiles ad superstitionem perculsae semel mantes_." Slate blue eyes flashed, relishing in the shock on her face, "You're not as clever as _you_ think and contrary to what you may believe, you are _not_ the Robinson Crusoe to my Friday; there's naught you have to teach me, little prince."

 _'The misfortunate are inclined to superstition'_ , she mentally translated. So he knew Latin... It was _something_ about him, the inquiry had not been a total fool's errand. Despite the fact that he had also insulted her, Christine couldn't help her excitement at finding someone who could trade literary barbs with her. Raoul was by no means unintelligent but he did not share her passion for the written word, it was refreshing to find someone who did. Even if it was not his intention Erik, she realized, revealed bits of his person most every time he spoke, she only needed to listen.

"Oh, _well_ , forgive me for wishing to know more about my travelling companion. I do not ask questions because I enjoy the sound of my own voice, you know."

" _That_ warrants debate." he scoffed.

"Regardless of what you think, Mr Grey, you cannot prevent me from asking and, mark me, I _will_ know every answer I seek by the end of this trek."

"I would not be so sure of that."

"What do you mean? If you are threatening to gag me again, I'm not afraid."

"No? _Pity._ Naturally, there _are_ alternative means. I _could_ always cut out your tongue, for instance." Erik suggested casually.

She paled visibly, her lip quivering. "Y-You _w-wouldn't._ B-Besides, I'd b-bleed to d-death."

His lips twisted into a ghoulish caricature of a smile. Leering through the flames as he was, he could have been a demon. "That is why the blade is first put into the fire: cauterizes the wound, not a drop of blood. I assume you are aware how cauterization works, yes? You don't require an explanation or a ... _demonstration?_ "

Something was moving rhythmically within the flames, swishing to and fro unabatingly like a cat's tail. Back and forth, back and forth. Christine glanced downward, entranced, her eyes following its every movement, wondering what was carving beauty into flame. Then she saw it clearly: _a knife._ She hurriedly retreated to the safety of the tent as she had done the previous night. This time her vision was colored with terror rather than tears and her mouth clamped shut not in anger but with fear.

* * *

 **So ends the third night. At least she isn't crying herself to sleep, right?**

 **A/N: If anyone is curious why Erik isn't more suspicious of 'Christopher', it's because he really doesn't care all that much. To him Christopher/Christine is simply a _job_ to be transported from point A to point B; one he was reluctant to take on in the first place. Other than his companion's immediate safety and biological needs (food, sleep, drink) he's not at all invested, therefore it doesn't matter to him if Christopher/Christine were to be purple and have ten eyes; as callous as it seems he sees his charge more as cargo than an actual person, which is also why he's such a jerk to her. But as the two of them interact more his impassivity starts ebbing just a smidgen and he _tries_ to be more sensitive. **

**Although there _is_ a nagging sort of feeling in the back of his mind that there is something amiss about the 'boy' he's responsible for; he _does_ mention the first time they meet how Christopher's voice is rather high but thinks nothing of him always insisting on 'doing his business' out of sight. Eventually (and not very far in the distant future) these little quirks become too glaringly obvious for him to ignore and he automatically pieces them together. Christine definitely will _not_ tell him anything unless he figures it out and she has no other choice. Remember she doesn't know him and is afraid that he might take advantage.  
**

 **What happens once he finds out is _anyone's_ guess, well except my own since I wrote it, lol. ;)**


	8. His beauty is not the beauty of a man

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I'm glad you guys like the story thus far. :)**

 **I would have updated sooner but I had a busy weekend of family related events and dinners.**

 **At any rate, enjoy! Things are about to get interesting.**

* * *

 **30 April - Day 3**

Nadir Khan gasped as he read the document, rereading a second and then third time to make sure he hadn't imagined it. Still in shock he brought out his spectacles and studied the paper for a fourth time, his finger skimming across every line, his eyes following. It had been no mistake, no trick of an old man's tired vision, and it changed _everything_.

Hastily dressing and making himself passably presentable he hurried out his front door and into the early stirrings of the cloudy, London morning and its already bustling streets. He found a cab with relative ease and set off towards his destination, clutching the folder containing the staggering document to his chest protectively.

When he arrived he rapped on the door impatiently, practically bursting out of his skin with eagerness like a débutante who had just learnt a particularly juicy piece of gossip. He knocked again. And _again_. Briefly he wondered how serious of a reprimand he'd be dealt if he broke down the door. Maybe if he slipped the pins from the hinges...

 _Merciful Allah_ , he had spent too much time in Erik's company.

At last, when he was on the verge of ripping his mustache out, the door opened. Richard Monthall stood there in a dressing gown and slippers, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. Obviously he had just recently awoken, although his face did brighten a touch when he saw the identity of his visitor.

"Nadir? This is a surprise, it's quite early even for you, old boy."

"I know, Dicky, and I apologize, only I made a discovery and I felt it couldn't wait."

Equal parts intrigued and befuddled, Richard stepped aside to allow the Persian entry. Only when the door had closed and the pair were his study did he speak.

"A discovery, you say? How interesting! I should very much like to hear it, but would you first care for some uh, coffee?"

" _Please._ Thank you." Nadir said, thumbing the brim of the hat in his hands. His frazzled nerves protested but he forced composure; it would not serve to beat down someone's door at dawn and then refuse their hospitality. He took this as a positive sign that he was not completely turning into his masked companion.

Once the coffee had been served and they had each enjoyed a cup, which in retrospect had been a rather good suggestion as it somewhat steadied his anxiety, the initial enterprise was resumed. Neither man wasted time waffling about, both were busy and both were eager: one hungry to share and the other keenly tantalized by the mystery of it all.

"Now onto this _discovery_ of yours, dear chap. Do share by all means."

"Well, you see I was looking into Gustave Daaé as per your request and by inadvertent extension I also investigated his son."

"Oh, yes. Christopher was the name, right?" There was a morsel of unfulfillment in his voice as he set his cup back on the tray. "Surely you don't believe the boy a privy party. I would be absolutely dashed if he had anything to do with the threats against his father, from what I've heard, the lad is rarely seen and mostly keeps to himself."

"No, I do not suspect any unscrupulous involvements."

Monthall's brow rose, "Wherein lies the problem then?"

"That's just _it_ , my friend. _Nobody_ knows of him. I've not been able to find anything on a Christopher Daaé prior to this month when he departed Southampton for the Caribbean."

Still his audience looked underwhelmed. "That _is_ admittedly odd, Nadir, but I hardly see why it matters. Outside of being targeted, the boy has no relevance nor knowledge of his father's dealings in politics; he's just an innocent casualty in all of this unfortunate business. You know how things such as this go."

Frustrated by his lack of headway, he decided to just out with the information. "Dicky, nobody knows of him because _Christopher_ Daaé does not exist, however Gustave _does_ have a child, an _only_ child, a _daughter_ named Christine."

Nadir was leaning off the edge of his chair. In his eyes was glinting that same madness that takes ahold of every man in the heat of passion, like a hunter who has at last tracked an elusive beast after years of failure.

"You are telling me that _Christopher_ is actually Christine?" the other man recited numbly, his forehead lined, overtaxed by thought. His reaction was mildly disappointing, he didn't seem the least flustered or stunned by what Nadir had considered an uncontested bombshell. Perhaps it was because he hadn't offered proof? Apparently he should have led with the evidence and then let his companion draw conclusions. A mistake on his part, but not a one difficult to remedy.

"Yes, that is _exactly_ what I saying and I have the documents of _her_ birth to prove it." He was excited, hedging on fanatical.

But his words seemed to fall on deaf ears, the other man remained deep within his own mind; cupping his chin, engrossed in deliberation, his hand slowly drawing inward and squishing his face. " This is all extremely bizarre... You are alleging the criminals made a mistake, one Daaé supported when he when he reported his son in peril? I saw a copy of the letter, it specifically threatens a _Christopher_ Daaé. The error on behalf of the reprobates is unsurprising, God knows what goes through the amoral mind, but why would a father lie about such a thing?"

"I know and at first I could not account for it either. But I've since come up with a theory that young Christine disguised herself as a boy, as _Christopher_ , in order to travel to Martinique as a member of Professor Arthur Harding's expedition."

Richard's expression turned abruptly serious, bordering on ominous, his voice dropping to a whisper and hand falling from his face. He leaned forward in his chair, gripping the armrest. "Have you told anybody about your findings?"

"No, I just confirmed it before I came to see—"

" _Excellent._ " He nodded assuredly. " _Nobody_ is to know, do you understand? Make no mention of it to another soul aside from me, not even Daaé; he is not to be made aware that we've uncovered the truth. We cannot risk exposing a secret of this nature even accidentally, not until the girl is safely back on English soil where her protection can be guaranteed. I assume I needn't remind you of the implications should these men unearth the same thing you have."

Nadir shook his head. Reminders of violence against women were gratuitous for one who had been raised in a place where the fairer sex was bought, sold, and traded like cattle, where daughters were sold to harems, where husbands beat their wives for the littlest indiscretion without a second thought. These vile men would be no different; religion was simply a circumstantial divergence. Gustave's daughter would receive no more mercy than would a son. The vile creatures would abuse her the same, torture her the same, and worst of all they would not hesitate to defile her. What revenge could be more acute against a lonely, widowed father, his daughter the only person he had in the world? Just the thought of such a fate awaiting a poor, innocent girl barely out of childhood made his blood boil. Desperately he prayed that the enemy indeed had _not_ figured out Daaé's secret.

"Where are the documents now?"

"Here," He blinked to calm himself and held out the folder he had been hugging since leaving his residence. Monthall rose from his seat but did not take it.

"And those are the only copies that you've made?"

"Yes. I brought them for your inspection should you wish it."

"Considerate of you, old boy, but that will not be necessary. Throw them into the fire." came the blunt reply.

The Persian stood as well. "There is one last matter, Dicky. What if Erik finds out?" Assuming Erik had not already stumbled upon _Christopher's_ real identity.

Monthall turned to him, forehead furrowed in puzzlement, "I should think nothing would change, he has his orders and they stand whether Christopher is really Christine or a hound in a skirt. Do you have any belief in the contrary?"

"Well, _not precisely_ , but I should think it might make things a touch uh, _uncomfortable_ for a young girl to be travelling alone with an unfamiliar man and as we both know, Erik can be ... _difficult_ and intense."

"Nadir," The other man trained a solemn gaze upon him, as if to extract the truth, "have you reason to doubt Erik's character? I concede he can be uncouth, but I do not see him as the type of man to take advantage of the girl's situation. Are you cognizant of any information that might suggest otherwise?"

Implications and accusations dangled in the air between the two men. There would be no pretenses or euphemisms. Richard's meaning was as clear as day. Did Erik find rape as repugnant as either of them _or ...?_ Nadir carefully ruminated over his answer, searching for the best way to make his concerns transparent. Although they were both well-acquainted with him, it was he who was closest to the former court assassin; Monthall was merely an authority figure whereas the Persian considered himself a friend of sorts, though he was almost sure the other party would deny this.

Even so he only knew Erik as well as the latter _allowed_ , leaving him in the dark about a great many things. As for the aforementioned blurred aspects, he oftentimes was forced to make deductions based on his affinity for reading others. However one element was unequivocal: the man was no rapist. More than that he found harming women repellent, overtly refusing to even strike one. Nadir had learnt that one spring day in the palace when the Shah had ordered his deadly angel to punish a concubine who no longer pleased him.

Erik spat at his feet before sneering his declination. For his offense and disobedience he had instead served as the test subject for his own torture device; the girl had been killed anyway. _No_ , Christine was not at risk of brutal treatment yet still he sensed another danger there, one much harder to qualify.

"Ruthless and brusque as he may be, Erik is of impeccable character when it comes to a woman's honor."

"So what then is the problem?"

Yes, what _was_ the problem?

"It's hard to say, really, and more of an intuition than anything but I cannot help worrying for him."

" _Worrying?_ " Richard chortled incredulously in the sort of manner one might adopt had they been asked if the moon glowed purple. "About _Erik?_ He's our best man, if he is undaunted by armies what risk can one little girl pose?"

"I am well aware that he is the best qualified for the mission but my worry lies in the possibility that he might develop an unhealthy attachment to the girl given his _circumstances._ It's difficult to imagine but Erik feels just as keenly as you or me, or any other man, maybe _more_ so. You've likely not seen it because he learnt to detach himself, to stop _feeling,_ early on because of—"

Revelation shone on Monthall's face. "What lies beneath the mask."

"Precisely. The disconnection only strengthened as he grew into manhood. This is what sets him apart as the ideal agent, he's not compromised by emotions because to him work is simply _work_. But no man, no matter how strong, is invulnerable. Sooner or later even the great fall." The Persian's choice of words held more than just a literal meaning.

"You're concerned Erik _might ..._ " He frowned then shook his head vigorously. "But she's just a girl! They're all predisposed to be silly, ridiculous things at that age. Surely a man like him couldn't find anything appealing in such a creature."

"Most likely not, but perhaps it bears consideration that the girl in question is _not_ the typical vapid chit found in fashionable social circles. After all she _did_ don a male alias to go on an expedition in the jungle. How many girls in her position would do something similar? I'd wager few to none. Frankly young Christine sounds like an intelligent, fascinating person to me. True, Erik has not spent an abundance of time in the company of women but ultimately he is _still_ a man."

Erik Grey, previously the Angel of Doom, falling for the charms of a sweet maiden? It was preposterous, _laughable_! But was it possible? Once Richard would have bet money on the contrary but now he wasn't so sure; his guest had sowed a seed of doubt within his mind, for which he was unappreciative.

"And what of the supposed little siren? Should we be concerned about her as well?" he said rather snappishly, feeling very much like a child who had just learnt his idol was a fraud.

Somberness settled over Nadir's countenance. " _Very much so_ , I should think. _Especially_ if she has been as sheltered as is indicated. I don't believe I need to tell you that many find Erik captivating in spite of his differences; the mask does repulse, yes, but for some it lends to the aura of intrigue. The loutish hostility aside, he _does_ have a certain charm, a kind of dark allure. I think a man such as that could quite easily draw the attention of most women let alone that of a curious young girl rife with naïveté, do you not?"

"So you think them doomed should Erik find out?"

"Let us hope not, my friend. Let us hope not."

 **o o o**

For the second morning in a row, Christine awoke without prompting and for the second morning she was by herself. The sun hadn't yet made its presence known. What time did he rise? She began to wonder if he even slept at all. Never once had she heard him enter or leave the tent, granted she went to bed before him every night but it was still decidedly weird. Furthermore his bedroll was neatly rolled every time she saw it. Although by now she knew better than to ask him about it.

Still no closer to unravelling the enigma that was her travelling partner she readied herself for another long day of walking. Out here there was little else to do, out here where her entire existence consisted of hiking, eating, and sleeping. It was a bland reality but she reminded herself it was only temporary. Her issue did not rest with the physical strain or the uncivilized lifestyle but with their rapid pace. All day she passed rare and intriguing flora and yet had no time to investigate, catalogue, or take clippings. Not that it would serve much purpose, she had nothing in which to record her findings. _Oh well_ , perhaps in a year or so she could return and explore to her heart's content. There was no sense in focusing on something currently out of her grasp.

Sighing, she rummaged through her pack for a fresh pair of socks, jamming her knuckle on something hard and letting out a swear. What on earth? Confused, she abandoned her initial quest and set about unearthing this new impediment, locating and tugging it free. Her mouth fell open when she saw what she held.

In her hands rested the portfolio containing all of her sketches. Erik must have taken it from her room and packed it alongside her other necessary personal belongings. Had he truly done her such an enormous kindness? Christine quickly flipped through it in sheer disbelief, making sure it had not been a hallucination.

 _Everything_ was there, _every_ sketch, _every_ water color. The gesture was profoundly touching. Perhaps he was not the terrible person she believed him to be, perhaps, _deep down_ , he was not so horrid. She tucked it away with a smile and checked to make sure her tongue was still in its proper place, emerging from the tent in considerably brighter spirits than she had been in since beginning this journey; she didn't even mind her masked escort's stare.

"Good morning, Mr Grey." she said with a smile.

" _My_ , aren't we sprightly."

His tone sounded more amused than peeved, or so she thought. But this didn't stop her from making a snide remark. In fact these dry exchanges of sarcasm had become somewhat of a bonding exercise between the two of them. She wanted to thank him for packing her portfolio, she knew she _should_ , but instead a sardonic quip emerged.

As they spent more time together it became harder to control her tongue around Erik; sometimes, increasingly frequently, _something_ just took over and said whatever it pleased. Christine couldn't remember ever feeling such license even with papa and Raoul, who (to their credit) both encouraged her outspokenness. With them, there was still an unvoiced expectation for the decorum befitting a well-bred girl, restrictions that would not have applied had she been male. With Erik there were no such boundaries, if anything he promoted such candidness, and she doubted anything would change if he uncovered her secret.

It was both freeing and terrifying.

"Would you rather me be as beastly as yourself?"

"I'm indifferent on the matter."

"Well, then, I shall be as cheerful as I please, if only for the sake of irritating you."

"How generous, _truly._ Should I then rescind my offer of coffee in light of this newfound vigor?" An inky brow sailed upwards, skimming the top of the mask. "If you are already possessed of such brio, surely caffeine would be unnecessary."

"Coffee?" she echoed in excited disbelief, "Where did you get coffee?"

"Clearly I would have brought it along. I've hardly the time to harvest and roast it myself."

"I doubt you could have at any rate, I don't think they grow coffee on the island."

"You would be mistaken, young Daaé. _Then_ , I suppose an expensive education clearly isn't everything..." he drawled, "Martinique was actually the founding point for the Caribbean, and possibly South American, coffee trade."

" _Well_ , I apologize for being too busy learning relevant academic subjects over inane facts. How did you know that? Did your overseer or comptroller, _whatever he's called_ , have you memorize useless information in preparation for your mission?"

He offered a nonchalant shrug, "Hardly. I simply _know_ things, boy; it's one of the _numerous_ areas in which I excel."

"I'm sure we can both agree that modesty is _not_ one such _area_."

"Yet it was not I who insinuated you were illiterate..." Erik handed her a steaming cup with a grunt. "There is no sugar but you may have what remains of the opened tinned milk."

"No, but you've called me worse."

" _Yes_ , and you deserved it." he countered.

They departed after breakfast and for the first time Christine didn't mind the weighty rucksack, humidity, or the onerous hike that was guaranteed. She was beginning to adapt to the little routine they had established, adding onto that the discovered portfolio, fresh cup of coffee, and successful wrapping her own puttees, she was in a positively great humor. Her good mood was reflected in her questions, of which she only asked a few and all of them impersonal.

 _Where did you get the coffee and how did you manage to grind it?_

 _You know a lot about the island. Did you study its history?_

 _How much farther?_

 _Do these mountains have a name?_

Indeed it seemed the day was destined to be pleasant because, in another first, she actually received an answer. So stunned was she that the sound of his voice robbed her feet of ability and brought her to an involuntary halt.

"Pitons du Carbet."

"The Carbet Mountains." she murmured.

" _Peaks_ , I believe is the more literal translation." Christine glared at the back of his head, resuming her stride only to almost collide with him when it came his turn to stop. She barely avoided tripping over herself and was forced to do an awkward shuffling maneuver to keep her balance. Fortunately his attention was focused on the sun and the compass in his hand. He lingered for several minutes, longer than she had seen him take in the past. She couldn't help capitalizing on the fact; especially since he reliably commented on _her_ every shortcoming.

"Are you _so_ sure you know where we're going?"

Erik peeped over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed, "Have I given you reason to think otherwise?"

"No, it's just taking you a while, isn't it? You know, I never _do_ see you looking at any maps."

" _That_ is because I haven't any further use for one." he returned coolly.

" _Doesn't seem to be the case..._ " she mumbled, " _Please_ enlighten me how you know we're headed in the correct direction if all you've consulted is that stupid compass. So far as I'm aware even the _best_ navigators require a map."

"Yes, but how dismal that your ignorance cheapens said _'knowledge'_. The maps are inside of my head, committed to memory, and I learnt to navigate using celestial bodies when I was a boy so forgive me if I disregard your opinions on the matter."

"You memorized a map?"

"I memorized several. Now, I have our heading so if you do not offer objection, boy, I think it best we continue on our way."

Naturally she followed him with the usual roll of her eyes and mouthed curses aimed at his back, but she was far from finished with the earlier conversation. Completely enamored, for whatever reason, of his abilities, a subject that fascinated her more and more with each new thing she learned. Every man, woman, and child was unique in some regard, created like fingerprints so that no two were exactly alike. Some were extraordinary, others boring, and others still were captivating; Erik fell solidly into both the first and last categories.

It wasn't that celestial navigational was so strange, rare, or impressive. Humanity had relied on these methods for centuries and still did, though modern innovations were slowly rendering such obsolete. Christine was positive some of the older captains and sailors employed by her father were familiar with the techniques, still she had yet to meet someone with the skill. A hundred subsequent questions popped into her mind but instead of being intended to nuisance, they were borne of legitimate curiosity.

 _Do you know our position in terms of latitude and longitude? Can you tell the time of day as well?_

 _Where did you learn to navigate by the cosmos? Was your father a captain or ship's navigator?_

 _How exactly do you do it? Are there several techniques or just one?_

 _Is it any different in the northern hemisphere versus the southern hemisphere?_

Of course, Erik did not recognize the difference and promptly ignored her every inquiry, not once snapping at her to 'hold her tongue' in his typical fashion. This total lack of response was worse than his raging, at least when he scolded her she knew he had been paying some attention. Adding to her dismay was the small fact that she even _cared_. Christine had never actively sought consideration from _any_ man other than her father and had shaken her head at the multitude of her sex who did. Vain, weak parasitic creatures they were. So why then was she falling into the same pathetic habit? What difference did it make whether or not a boor like _him_ noticed her or not? She _should_ not give a damn if he disregarded her. But she _did_ and it bothered her as much as his neglect.

Silent as the grave he remained until they reached an area with particularly thick vegetation and more than a few downed trees. It was late afternoon and the light had begun to fade just enough to cast parts of the snarl in shadow. Rather than hacking and slashing with his machete like a jungle explorer, he paused and peered into the tangle.

"It might be treacherous. Untie yourself, give me your pack and I will help you through, little prince."

His comment turned enthrallment into ire as swiftly as Jesus had changed water into wine. Christine had experienced a great deal of aspersion from him since their paths crossed and had finally reached her limit. She was tired of his constant belittling remarks, insulting nicknames, and underestimation; he did not even deign her worthy of a response.

 _Well_ , she was no swooning colleen, she was independent and capable and it was high time he credited her ... or _Christopher_ , rather!

Incensed and desirous to prove herself, she refused. _Help her?!_ As if she were his elderly grandmother needing aid to tackle the stairs. She scoffed, rolling her sleeves. Not her, _thank you very much._ From girlhood Christine had absolutely loathed the damsel in distress and now that she was a woman, she had no intention of becoming that which she despised. She was not delicate or dainty and she most certainly did _not_ need a man's help to climb through some felled trees and knotted vines.

Moreover he still saw her as _Christopher_ so the offer had been motivated not by chivalry but because he thought her sorry and weak: a wretched, feeble milksop. This revelation made it worse, _more degrading_. It made her feel pitiful and inept. She would not have accepted his assistance even if she had to crawl through a pit of bugs and snakes.

"I'll have you know that I am quite capable of handling myself!" she spat viciously, dropping her rucksack at his feet alongside the rope that connected them. Then, stomping forward angrily, Christine managed to scale the log with little effort. She found her footing amongst the gnarled roots with similar ease, leaving him trailing behind her for a change.

A sliver of sunlight pierced the dense morass, bathing her (quite literally) in the glow of triumph. She took it as a celestial sign and resumed her crusade imbued with satisfaction. All accolades were short-lived, however, when something caught her boot and she tumbled forward. Christine landed with a disgusting slap in a puddle of mud, the thick, foul sludge covering the entire front of her body from face to foot.

If that was not humiliating enough, the deep timbre of _his_ laughter certainly proved to be.

"Oh yes, _quite_ capable." The sight of his proffered hand and blue eyes alight with levity at her expense inspired a tempest of fury and with a scream she slapped it away. Her vision was swimming, distorting his image as she looked up, not with temper or muck but tears. Hot, plump tears of rage.

"Get away! Don't touch me!"

"Suit yourself." he said casually.

With great, laborious exertion Christine forced herself up onto her hands and knees and stared at the soggy ground beneath her, clumps of slop sliding off her face and plopping sharply back into the mire. The intermittent plunking mingled with her panting in a strange rhythm that spanned many moments before she haltingly rose to kneel. Shoulders hunched from the weight of the mud and embarrassment she extended her right leg, planting her boot solidly and pushed upwards; her left foot coming to rest beside the right with a wet splat as she stood. She stayed that way for however long, slouched, dripping and breathing heavily. Her teeth clamped down upon her tongue so firmly that she tasted blood; she didn't flinch. The dull pain was nothing compared to the agony of mortification; she would rather bite her tongue in two than speak and risk the inevitable scathing criticism that was as sure as the rising sun.

Then, swiping the filth and tears off her face with a handkerchief she stepped out of the puddle in wordless affirmation that she was ready to continue. Mercifully Erik's acknowledgment was equally mum; he merely handed her rucksack back. The rest of the day's hike was carried out in total silence. At least walking helped to take her mind off of her mishap.

When they reached a suitable area to camp the mud had dried, making her clothes and skin unbelievably stiff. Not very much time had passed, perhaps an hour at most, still it was as though she had been dipped in a vat of starch, even basic movements were tedious.

Deep down she was grateful for stopping but she'd never admit it, not to _him_ especially.

Tonight's resting place was beside a stream and afforded a nice view of the mountainous landscape. Were she in the frame of mind to enjoy it, she might have thought it serenely beautiful. Erik wasted no time in setting up camp, giving no indication that he expected her help. Christine went to collect firewood, glad for the reprieve and not wishing to appear any _more_ useless than she already had.

Erik brushed the sweat from his forehead as he hammered in the last tent stake and got to his feet. He looked out into the distance, mallet hanging limply from his grasp and swept the other hand through his hair. There were hours of daylight still. They had stopped earlier than he would have liked, however after seeing the all-too familiar look of heated shame in the boy's eyes he decided to call it half a day and allow the lad to have a wash and a good rest to nurse his wounded pride.

Sensing he was no longer alone, he turned to see Christopher holding an armful of firewood and gave an appreciative nod. In spite of his gross overconfidence and general lack of experience, Erik had to concede that the boy was adjusting quite well to this rigorous, wild lifestyle; it was admirable in a way, but he wouldn't reveal he thought so.

"Just set it down." Christine let the bundle fall onto the ground and bent to arrange it into a somewhat organized pile, still determined to avoid his gaze.

"Here."

He extended a crumpled ball of linen. A shirt, _his_ shirt. "It will not remotely be your size but it is clean and dry at the very least."

She hesitated, regarding it blankly, "Thank you but I have clothes of my own."

" _Take it_ , I have extra. Go clean yourself and your clothes in the stream." She accepted the garment sheepishly, her eyes focused on her dirty boots, hoping that the mud on her face would conceal the queer blush that arose at his words.

"But there's still things to do about—"

"You needn't worry over it, I will finish setting up camp." Erik reached into his pack, pulled out a pouch and threw it at her feet. "Soap flakes. I trust you do not require an explanation over how to use them." he said wryly.

"I'm sure I will manage."

"Good. I should have found such instruction tedious." His mouth twisted into a smirk. "Go on young Daaé and do not take overlong. I've strung a clothesline for you."

Once more she was stirred by his act of kindness. No longer did Christine doubt that Erik, despite being a churl and fiend, was in possession of a generous heart. _Yes_ , there was a definite goodness about him, though he seemed determined not to show it. Still, it had been present in the manner in which he treated her following the afternoon's muddy incident. Tension and bickering aside, it was almost as if there had bloomed a tenuous sort of respectful fondness alongside the animosity. Oddly she found the prospect pleasing. Perhaps the remaining journey would not be wholly unbearable, perhaps _eventually_ they could even exist on friendly terms.

" _Thank you._ " she said quietly, whirling away and starting towards a cluster of trees along the shore that would afford the necessary privacy, bag of soap in one hand and his shirt in the other. Only when her back was to him did she allow the small smile to creep over her face; the lightness in her step sparked by the strange, fresh truce that had sprung up between them.

* * *

 **So Nadir figured out _Christopher's_ secret, it's only a matter of time before Erik does as well. Any guesses as to how? **

**A/N: First there must be some turning points, this chapter and the next will serve in that regard. Slowly the dynamic between them _will_ shift just a tiny bit and they'll go from disliking each other to (uneasy) allies.**

 **Reviews would be lovely. ;)**


	9. A Tentative Friendship

**1 May - Day 4**

Unearthly brightness pried Christine's eyes open. The sun had already risen; _she had overslept._ Not wishing to impede their usual punctual routine she jumped out of bed, blushing when she saw she wore Erik's shirt. She inhaled as she pulled it off. It _still_ smelled like him, like wood smoke, leather, and herbs. A wave of tingling intoxication spread throughout her body as she drank in his scent. Embarrassed over a reaction more befitting a dog in a butcher shop, she quickly dressed and stuffed it deep within her rucksack, hurrying through the rest of her morning routine and exiting the tent.

The morning air was tepid. Thick clouds hung in the north, casting the smoking Mount Peleé against an ominous backdrop. Today the mountain's exhalations fanned in every direction of an apparent mind to engulf the island and the blue of the sky. She caught sight of Erik out of her periphery. He was bent over a pot of water, mask slightly raised and skin lathered with shaving soap. In one hand he held a small mirror and in the other an ivory-handled straight razor. Even from a distance she could tell its blade was sharp and deadly.

Surely he was _not_ going to put that wicked looking thing anywhere near his face! Christine gasped quietly when he did just that, drawing it down his jaw with one steady, angled stroke; then another. She watched in captivation, mesmerized by his adroit hand, as two sweeps became five and six, each as unflinching and precise as the one before.

Queerly it was almost artful to witness. Erik lent a uniquely noble finesse to such a mundane act. And were it anybody else, Raoul or papa, boredom would have set in long ago. Once he was done his focus shifted to her.

In that moment, freshly shaven as he was and sporting his typical imperious expression, he could _nearly_ pass for handsome, even with the mask. Utterly horrified, she shook the thought away as quickly as it had come. The long days of strenuous exercise and humidity must have addled her good sense if she believed Erik ... _attractive_.

"How dull your life must be to seek entertainment in observing another man shave."

"You flatter yourself, I was merely waiting for you to finish so that we might start the day."

"An interesting statement considering you're devoid of rucksack and puttees."

" _If_ you don't object, I'll take a meal before harnessing up like a draught horse." she retorted.

Breakfast consisted of coffee and biscuits, the latter actually proving surprisingly pleasant when dipped in the drink. A short while later with their campsite disassembled they were ready to begin the next leg of their journey. The past four days had turned them into an efficient pair. What had taken hours and several arguments now took half that, the feuds also subsided with this increased productivity. Indeed each day that passed became easier and more tolerable. And, as Christine stood poised to disembark she found herself in a light mood.

"Wait,"

They hadn't yet made it twenty feet when Erik abruptly turned to face her, presenting her with what looked to be a conglomeration of leather.

She cocked her head, regarding it inquisitively. It was comprised of a stiff, vaguely triangular piece with two straps—a longer one at the base and a shorter one at the tip. The grip of a knife protruded from the top of the leather. What was he doing? Why was he handing this to her?

"What is this?" she asked rather stupidly, confused over his motives.

"Perhaps I should reconsider giving you a blade if you cannot even recognize one."

 _Giving...?_ Yesterday's comment had merely been a taunt, a jest to get under his skin; she hadn't been in earnest. Nonetheless his refusal _had_ stung a bit but she never thought he would take her seriously, disbelieving a man like him would relinquish his ego and arm someone he considered a weakling. Apparently she had misjudged him.

"I can see _what_ it is. I meant—"

"Yes, yes, I _know_ what you meant; you _are_ woefully predictable, young Daaé. You asked for a knife, did you not? Have you changed your mind then? I confess I'd be a great deal more at ease if such was the case." He briefly pulled the weapon away before handing it to her.

Was he teasing her? Things were certainly off to a weird start today...

"No, it's just that you _said..._ I-I never thought you would allow it." Christine examined the sheath with surreal awe. The leather was of fine quality, a bit worn but well-cared for, and the blade was longer than initially believed. This marked the fifth kind gesture from Erik, in addition to his saving her life of course. She was powerless to stamp out the hope that arose within her. Maybe he did not dislike her as much as he let on, _maybe_ he too had come to care for her in his own way...

"It is designed to be worn on the thigh, made specifically for me when I was a lad about your age. I recommend placing it on the leg opposite your dominant hand, it makes it easier to draw the weapon in a fight; I wore it on my right as I'm left-handed but it will serve on either side." He scrutinized her carefully, "You can ascertain how to put it on before sundown, I trust?"

"I'll _try..._ " she retorted sardonically before remembering her manners, " _Thank you_ , I'm very grateful." Every word was genuine. He only grunted in acknowledgment, clearly uncomfortable with expressions of sentiment.

"Come. We must be off." was all he said.

It was particularly torrid today. The warmth seemed to come from all sides (even beneath) as if there was a giant hypocaust under the island heating it from the ground up. As the hours rolled by and the day grew hotter so too did his temper. For the life of her she couldn't understand _why._ She had not asked a single question and there were no obvious mishaps or delays. This mysterious agitation had randomly sprung up an hour into their trek, progressively worsening ever since. Ironically Erik was at his most vocal when irritated and snapped at her for everything, from her 'shuffling' when walking to her 'heavy breathing' to the way she chewed like a 'bovine'.

Without any other obvious cause Christine had attributed his poor humor to the heat. Her theory was further bolstered by their more numerous breaks, his profuse sweating and general restlessness. He paced like a trapped animal as she finished her lunch mopping his forehead continuously with his sleeve.

Her subsequent suggestion had been innocent, stirred by worry over his discomfort. She had meant _no_ harm. _Never_ could she have predicted his volatile reaction.

"You should remove that silly mask, you'll be cooler for it. Besides it's not as if you need to conceal your identity from me any—"

A millisecond later Christine found herself pinned to a tree by her throat. Erik loomed over her, his eyes alight with bloodcurdling savagery. The world darkened around them, his fierce, tenebrous rage blotting out sun and sky. It was galvanizing, the intensity of his fury electrifying each one of her senses, an augur of impending danger.

" _YOU DARE MOCK ME, BOY?!_ "

"I-I _didn't!_ W-What are you talking abo—"

"LIAR!" he roared. She observed the feral madness of his gaze and shrank in terror. Some great, horrible change had come over him, _this_... this wild _creature_ was _not_ Erik as she knew him.

" _Y-You l-l-looked o-overheated! I was s-sim—_ " Her speech was promptly cut off by the force tightening around her windpipe. Both of her hands grappled at his arm in an attempt to gain freedom but all efforts were useless; she was no match for his strength. She could still breathe but barely. Just a squeeze more and her oxygen supply would go the way of her speech. Once she would have sworn he'd never harm her, now she was not so sure.

"You will _never_ make mention of the mask again. _Ever!_ " he snarled, pressure increasing with each word. The lack of air made her head pound, her eyes would surely pop from her skull with the strain. Then just as abruptly as it had started she was released. Bewildered and relieved Christine sank to the ground in a gasping heap of tangled, quavering limbs.

It was abundantly clear that Erik's mask was _not_ for show. The fabric was hiding _something_ and whatever it was had to be dreadful to elicit such a response. Even more disturbing was the manner in which his composure rapidly returned as if nothing had happened. One moment all was well, the next his fingers were locked round her throat, and the next he was back to cold indifference: a transition as chilling as it was expeditious.

Without a backward glance he walked off. She had no choice but to follow and push aside her shock and hurt else she'd be left behind, _that_ much was indisputable.

Their pace doubled for the next few hours and no further pauses were given. She pondered briefly over whether or not this was meant as a punishment. But as her muscles screamed and rivers of sweat poured down her body, she turned to her mind for refuge. What better time to sort through the plethora of thoughts churning impatiently within her head?

Christine knew her trust in him should have dissolved the instant his hand closed upon her neck, good sense told her as much; anybody capable of such explosive changeability was untrustworthy. After all, how could one put one's faith in someone who might snap with the slightest provocation? A wise person would have fled from this fractious, violent man. And, perhaps she might have done had it happened days ago but things were different now; she couldn't explain _what_ or _how_ but knew only that they _were._

Maybe it was that she had glimpsed the various facets of his personality. Papa had once told her when she was a girl on his knee that people were not simply either good or evil like the characters in her storybooks, that they were the most complex of God's creatures, that even a hero could lose his way in darkness and a villain could likewise be redeemed by light. Back then she hadn't understood and this childlike black and white worldview had stuck with her into adulthood. She hadn't understood until this past week, _until Erik._

If anybody was an example of man's complex, multi-layered nature it was _him_. _Yes, but most people aren't quick to snap one's neck over a mistake,_ her mind rationalized. It was a fair point too. She had not purposely provoked him. How was she to recognize the subject as forbidden if he hadn't forewarned her? Whatever secret he hid, his reaction had been unmerited. There was no excuse for his vicious behavior.

Yet, there was something _off_ about it. Looking into his eyes during, even panicked as she was she could see something amiss. Almost like he was absent, like it wasn't really _him_ , and in that moment she saw no trace of Erik within that icy glare. How could that be? How could one dissociate on a whim? Mental illness was the first possibility. Though, an unlikely one; there would have been some hint of it previously and he had been lucid the entire trip until she mentioned the mask.

Obviously it was the catalyst. But why?

Months ago Christine had overheard two of the staff discussing Mrs Burns' nephew, the boy had gone to Africa laden with pride and idealism and had come back completely changed. One day there came an incident wherein he was working as a loader during the shoot, the gun went off and so did he, nearly beating the other man to death with his fists. Luckily both his victim and the master of the estate did not bring any charges against him. It was not his fault, said they, his mind had been warped by war.

Could a similar thing have happened to Erik? She was nigh positive he had once been a soldier. Did his mask hide a ghastly wound received in battle? Had the injury humiliated him? Was that why merely speaking of it triggered his black rage?

Her feet faltered and she caught herself, the stumble temporarily distracting her from her musings. Christine took in her surroundings as if awakening. She was walking along a wide, green ledge with steep slopes both below and above; Erik was somewhere ahead. No longer immersed within the temple of her own mind she noticed how fatigued she was and how her legs shook terribly. It was no great revelation. Her limbs had trembled with protest since luncheon. _Just_ as they had the last four days but never once had the shaking increased in intensity like it did currently.

Pushing away the soreness she went to take a step and fell. Only when her palms made contact with the ground did she realize that the vibrations were _not_ coming from her but the former. Christine looked up frantically, the tremors growing more powerful still.

Shelter. She _needed_ shelter.

Struggling mightily, she managed to shove herself onto her feet. As soon as she stood, however, a massive shudder ripped through the earth and knocked her off-balance. It was akin to trying to perch on the back of a wild stallion; she couldn't keep her footing forever.

And she slowly fell backwards.

Backwards towards the steep, tree and rock laden slope. Christine grasped frantically for something, _anything_ to give her purchase but her hands only closed around air. Following the _episode_ from earlier she had never replaced the rope that normally tethered her to Erik. A foolish mistake that could well be her last. Memories blended with dreams, the mixture of future and past zipping like a film reel before her eyes or perhaps within her head, she couldn't tell which. Either way, the matter was petty in comparison to the reality: that she was tumbling. The knowledge that this would not be the sort of fall one would walk away from, _if_ they even survived, pierced her like a dagger.

Time lagged as she arched backwards and she saw the world in incredible detail alongside the visions of her life, she saw each bright green blade of grass, the specks of brown dirt, the grey, white and green exposed stone, the guileless blue sky, the vivid, freckled petals of the flowers that grew wild. All in startling clarity. There _were_ worse ways to die. At least her final moments would be spent amongst Mother Nature's beautiful creations.

Curiously the very second she resigned herself to her bleak fate, she jerked to a halt before falling once more. This time _forward_. She was scarcely able to process this puzzling twist when she landed hard onto something, her chin and left elbow taking a good portion of the impact. Christine let out a groan, one echoed by whatever she lay on. Her eyes shot open, meeting a gaze the color of slate.

 _Erik_. Oh God, she was lying atop Erik!

Instantly she scrambled away, half in modesty and half in alarm, flopping onto her back beside him. Blood rushed to her face at the brief yet intimate position and the memory of his lithe, muscular figure beneath her. The hard ground, now calm, bruised her spine as she attempted to catch her breath and slow her pulse, her recent near-death experience just fractionally responsible for both. In the shadow of what had just occurred, Christine sensed that some of the animosity between them had fizzled. Or rather _hoped_ it had.

"W-Was ... that ... an ..."

" _Earthquake?_ " he supplied. She gave a feeble nod, barely lifting her head.

"Yes."

"Are ... we ... s-safe ...?"

"For the moment, I believe. However, we must seek more level ground; here we are at imminent risk of a landslide. Stay close." he added, hauling her up.

They stopped at the bottom of the mountain where the slopes were grassy and gradual. There flowed a stream nearby just like the night before, however this new site lacked for views unlike the previous one. After the tent had been erected and a small fire flickered brashly, Erik wordlessly stood and strode towards the edge of camp. His foul mood had since returned and he was more irritated than ever. She attributed this to the quake and was careful to keep a healthy distance and a good hold on her tongue; the memory of what happened that afternoon was too fresh to risk provoking him.

"I trust you're competent enough to tend the fire by yourself, _boy_?" He paused just long enough to throw a question over his shoulder.

"Yes."

" _Good._ Try not to burn the whole damn jungle down in my absence."

Christine's gaze snapped up. Was he actually leaving? He had never left her unattended before and had made a point _not_ to. Though she appreciated the implied trust in the act she couldn't help but be puzzled by the strange turn.

"Where are you going?" she asked before she could stop herself.

" _That_ business is entirely _my_ own and not the concern of a meddlesome child." he spat.

Nothing else was said on the matter. Christine instead shifted her concentration to the struggling fire eventually noticing that she was, in fact, alone.

Once the flames glowed strongly and burned on their own she found herself bored. He still wasn't back yet. What could be taking so long? Deciding he was right and it was better not to pry she elected to fetch some water to keep herself occupied. She had just dipped the empty pot into the stream when a noise startled her. Luckily she did not drop it, keeping ahold of it even when the source appeared. Erik's eyes bored into her his visible features contorted in anger.

"Did I not instruct you to remain in camp?"

"The fire is properly stoked and I came to gather water for sheer want of a task. I'm glad to see you haven't run off or fallen into the clutches of cannibals." He did not find her quip at all humorous as evinced by his scowl.

" _Return to camp!_ " he hissed, pointing rigidly in the direction she had come only to wince with the effort and drop his arm almost immediately.

There was something wrong with his shoulder. Perhaps he had strained it by pulling her to safety or perhaps one of the straps of his pack had blistered the skin. Regardless, something was bothering him.

"You're hurt."

"It's nothing." Erik growled. But Christine refused to be dissuaded.

" _Bollocks!_ " The fierceness of her interjection surprised them both. "Have you been in pain all day?" she continued, albeit more mildly.

"Why does it matter?"

"You are obviously injured and as your travelling companion, your well-being involves me."

He sneered. "It should not. As I've said, it is _nothing._ "

Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms, adopting a defiant pose. This was one battle of wills he would _not_ win. With so many potentially harmful diseases, insects, plants and animals in the jungle, none but an imbecile could afford to be cavalier with their health. Even forgetting to change one's socks or napping under the wrong tree could spell doom and infection would be all-but a death sentence.

"If you wish to kill yourself with stubborn arrogance when you're on your own, go ahead by all means. _But_ since you are with me, I shan't allow it. We _will_ go back to camp and I _will_ tend whatever ails you, _regardless_ of how you feel. If you think you've a say in it, you're mistaken. _So_ , you can either agree or I can knock you insensible again and _then_ look after you." Christine's fists were balled at her sides, her face red with conviction, yet her voice had barely been raised. Such threatening words made a menacing tone unnecessary.

Their gazes locked in an impasse, each one equally stony and unyielding. Erik appeared to be weighing her intent for weakness. She stared back obstinately, unwilling to back down. Finally he reached a decision and huffed in aggravation.

" _Fine_ , but only if you let me carry that." he replied, gesturing to the full pot at her feet, "If I leave it to you, you'll create another river alongside this one." Christine made no rebuttal outside of flashing him a scathing glare and not wanting to spoil his rare compliance, she then relented.

The fire was thriving soundly when they arrived back at their campsite (a fact she was sure to point out) and she smugly set a pot on to boil. Erik simply sat upon a rock glowering. Chocolate irises scanned him for some evident external symptom, making use of the steady source of light, but found none.

"You'll _uh,_ n-need to take your shirt off." Her cheeks flamed with the boldness of the question. If Mrs Giry were to overhear, _well_ , she would stitch the crimson 'A' onto her clothing and spare herself the lecture...

Upon further consideration maybe her response was a touch melodramatic. Her motivations in making the request were not rooted in impropriety but reasons medical. After all, nurses bathed and cared for their male charges and there was nothing scandalous in it. She just had to think like a nurse, an easy enough undertaking, right?

However this strategy fell by the wayside when he swiftly tugged the linen garment over his head with one hand and unabashedly met her eyes. A nervous hiss of air whistled through her teeth earning Christine a raised brow.

"Bit my tongue." she muttered in lame excuse hoping he wouldn't see through the lie.

Internally Christine railed at herself for her reaction not knowing what exactly she'd expected, she was the one who had asked him to remove his clothing. Perchance she had anticipated some sort of revolt on his part, or perchance she hadn't processed the full implication of her demand. Either way she tried valiantly to project her thoughts elsewhere, _anywhere_ other than on his naked torso. He was trim, lean muscled: all hard angles, not a trace of fat to be found. His skin still glowed with the remnants of a tan, a sparse sprinkling of hair on his chest.

This marked the second time she had seen a man in a state of undress, the first had been on the night they met - but she had only glimpsed his back then, in half-darkness and from a distance. That was nothing compared to the shirtless man sitting less than a foot away perfectly illuminated in the firelight. Though woefully inexperienced on the subject she felt that Erik more resembled the statues of antiquity than he did the average member of his sex. His body was beautiful in a way: expertly sculpted, nimble, not at all bulky or cumbersome.

What in the Lord's name had come over her? She most definitely had been in the jungle for _too_ long. Clearly she needed to get back to civilization, to rationality, instead of whatever savage amorality this wild landscape encouraged. Despite what her affected mind and body suggested she was _not_ attracted to him! Plenty of gentlemen had pleasing features; some were well-built or comely of face; some had eyes so pure and blue they rivalled the sky; others had shiny locks the color of corn silk. These were traits she noticed of course, but never once did she have the pressing urge to swoon and never _once_ did she feel as she did presently. This was so unlike her, there _had_ to be some black magic at work.

Unlike that morning's fleeting observation, this one was more difficult to banish, especially with his body so near, _especially_ with the warm smoothness of his skin under her fingers. The origin of his pain stood out plain and clear: a nasty gash between arm and chest perched on a hill of angry pink skin. Not a large wound, its length was no longer than that of her smallest finger; a small portion had scabbed over, the rest was sealed with sticky, newly clotted blood. Evidently it had been reopened several times, likely caused by a combination of friction from his pack and constant movement. It was not fresh. Probably more than a couple days old so far as she could tell, and she felt like an idiot for failing to deduce he'd been injured sooner.

"How?"

"A gift from our _friend_ when first we met."

Guilt broke over her, a daunting wave upon a rock. This had been _her_ fault. His pain, his suffering, were totally owing to her. Had she reacted quicker the brute's knife would not have made contact with Erik's skin.

" _Forgive me._ " she whispered.

"What's this nonsense? Whatever should _you_ apologize for, you ridiculous boy?" His head was cocked to the side, not in mockery but general perplexity; he truly did not comprehend her remorse.

" _If ..._ If I had intervened sooner, when you yelled for me to, instead of just standing there you wouldn't have been hurt."

"You had no bearing on it, I merely lapsed in my guard." Erik said gruffly, "Now dispense with the worthless contrition and tell me whether or not I'll live." Her mouth drew into a tight, somber line at his jape much as his had with her prior attempt at humor. Christine might have cuffed him then and there for his nonchalance had he not been hurt - and (indirectly) by her own hand; she hated his blasé attitude concerning his mortality.

Mentally condemning him she leaned closer to examine the cut. Even from a few feet away she could discern that it was trouble. Infection had begun to brew but only _just,_ a hint of decay's fetid stink hung about the wound. It was not yet serious but would be— _sooner rather than later_ —were it left untreated. A miracle, to be sure, what with all of the sweat, grime and dirt that had doubtlessly been ground into it in the erstwhile days.

First it needed to be cleaned, secondly poulticed to draw out any lingering contamination, and finally bandaged heavily for cushioning. This routine would need to be repeated daily until it healed. With diligent care she had faith he would mend.

"It's beginning to fester but the infection isn't deep. I think I can clean it out and dress it." Her gaze flared with grim warning, "It won't be pleasant."

"Well, there are my hopes _dashed_." he scoffed with a roll of his eyes. Christine compressed her lips at his casual dismissal. Not that she had expected any less, he was far from the type to show weakness.

"Have you any cloth for bandages?"

"In that case near my rucksack."

She set about collecting the necessary items. In the aforementioned doctor's case she found tincture of iodine, gauze, dressings, and numerous other potentially useful things. From her own cache she took marigold and comfrey. Arms overflowing, she ended up dragging the case over to him wasting no time mashing the herbs into a paste.

By the time she had everything ready the water was hopping and bubbling gaily within the pot. Christine poured some into a separate bowl alongside some cloth; she looked up, countenance set in a determined grimace.

"I'm going to begin now."

"And here I've been waiting all the while with bated breath..."

"I'll need to reopen it to clean it properly."

"Do what you must." he said coolly.

Hands quivering with nerves Christine took one of the cloths and started cleaning the wound, using the water to gently break up the blood clots until it was red and gaping like an angry maw. Next she began to flush it as best she could, freezing when Erik sucked in a sharp breath.

"I'm sorry! Did I h-hurt you?" she stammered unable to account for her hesitance. It was not like she hadn't known it would be uncomfortable. Still, knowledge was different from actually inflicting pain even _if_ she was doing so for his benefit.

"I'm fine. I've endured worse."

A small lapse yawned between them, the hum of tree frogs, crackling fire, and wet slap of fabric on skin the only noises to be heard.

"I did fight in the war."

" _What?_ " She paused, speech sounded odd to her after silence.

"Is your memory slipping, boy? It was one of _your_ incessant, insipid questions. You asked if I had fought in Southern Africa."

"Oh, yes," Christine mumbled abashedly remembering, "What did you do? I _mean,_ what was your function?"

"Scouting and tracking, mostly; later there arose a need for sharpshooters. I was a part of a specialized Highland regiment."

"But you're not—"

"Scottish? No, but I had a similarly useful skill-set."

"What skill-set is that?" she asked, trying to keep him talking both for her own selfish curiosity and because the distraction brought an overall sense of ease.

"I was an experienced marksman and tracker prior to the most recent conflict in Africa and in the bush of the Transvaal these qualifications were requisite to survival."

"Is that where you learnt to fight, the Transvaal?"

" _No,_ " A chuckle escaped his lips before terminating in a hiss of pain as she switched from water to iodine. "That _particular_ talent was acquired in youth. I fit in quite a lot of practice during my formative school years."

"What did you do before you were a soldier?"

"A story for another time, little prince."

Despite the nosiness eating away at her Christine didn't continue to prod. She would just need to be patient and, she reminded herself, small steps were better than none. This was the first occasion he'd volunteered information of his own volition and she was loath to spoil that, even if she _was_ possessed of a mad desire to learn everything about him and all at once.

"What is that you're packing into the wound?"

"It's a herbal poultice," Christine explained, welcoming the shift in subject.

Erik snorted. "I gathered as much. Which herbs are you using in said poultice?"

" _Symphytum x uplandicum_ and _Calendula officinalis_." Their Latin names rolled off her tongue with enthusiasm.

"Russian Comfrey and pot marigold. Neither is endemic to Martinique, where did you find fresh leaves?"

At this query she averted her eyes guilty. "I spied them growing in a garden as I was walking about Saint-Pierre—"

His face lit up with amusement, lips curving into a delighted smirk. "You stole them?"

"No!" Her denial was quick but hardly convincing. "I don't think theft applies to plants. I mean, they're a part of nature, not material things like coins, jewels or a watch."

"Did you have permission to take clippings?"

"Well, _no_ , but—"

"Then you purloined them by very definition." He was grinning. " _Oh dear_ , it seems the little prince is not as noble and puritanical as he would have everyone believe."

Christine glowered at him, pulling the bandage taut none too gently; he grunted. "You are versed in botany?" she ground out, wishing to change topics.

"Somewhat, at least, where _certain_ aspects are concerned. I don't doubt your knowledge surpasses my own, though." The compliment overshadowed his preceding cryptic remark and she found herself beaming giddily (to her disgust) as she finished her task.

" _There._ All done." She rose and dusted off her trousers. "It'll need to be changed religiously until the infection is gone. Normally you should rest but as that's not an option I padded it to reduce irritation."

"Thank you." The two words loitered in the air as thick and overwhelming as incense, which, Erik looked every bit as stunned to have uttered as she was to have heard them.

Leaving him to redress Christine began to tidy up packing everything back into its designated place. The pot of water was the last thing left to address and had cooled enough to be stored, as she poured it into the jug containing their drinking water she felt his stare.

"Has anybody ever told you that you have womanly hands?"

The pot fell to the ground with a heavy thump in perfect mimicry of her plummeting guts. Thankfully it was almost empty. _He was just teasing_ , she assured herself, _only joking_. Perhaps if she feigned indignation he wouldn't grow suspicious; Christine recovered and put her hands on her hips.

" _Well_ , I daresay you should be a spot more grateful, these 'womanly' hands just spared you from a slow, agonizing death."

"It would take more than a minor infection to kill me, young Daaé." Erik said, taking a swig from a flask and offering it to her. She shook her head firmly.

"Spirits are vile substances good for nothing but keeping the poorhouses full."

He shrugged. "All the more for me."

"While you presumably drink yourself into a stupor, I am going to bed."

"Christopher," His voice cut through the evening somberly, stopping her as she reached the tent flaps. "About earlier... I behaved badly."

There was no need to ask to what he referred. Nevertheless she was astonished by the apology - Erik's version of one at least. Somehow she got the impression he was unused to such gestures.

"I should not have brought up—"

" _Just_ ..." His tone grew suddenly tense; he exhaled slowly. "Do not do so _again_."

"We have a deal, Mr. Grey."

Without turning Christine crawled into the tent smiling to herself. In spite of today's altercation things at last appeared to be looking up between her and Erik, almost as though they were becoming _friends_.

It was this pleasant prospect that lulled her into a restful sleep.


	10. He is a woman, oh! he is a woman!

**A/N: I meant to post this a lot sooner but Easter weekend and life got in the way. Whoops.**

 **No further need for death glares (Child of Dreams), there is a _major_ event in this chapter.**

* * *

 **2 May - Day 5**

It was music that coaxed her eyelids open.

Not just any simple tune but a melody worthy of the heavens themselves, music that proved the existence of the Lord and his angels. The sublime beauty which moulded and interwove each note promised to inspire painters and sculptors, bring sight to the blind, and instill faith in the most vehement heretic. And it called to her, it _spoke_ to her.

Others would feel its ambrosial draw, would recognize its loveliness, some might analyze and annotate each component in the language of music, but only _she_ truly understood it. The hidden words and furtive intimations within its strains were meant solely for her ears, a tongue she alone could comprehend. It beckoned her, gently beseeching, _suggesting_ , and she followed. With quiet surety Christine stole from the tent.

Empty, of course, it was _always_ empty.

Silvery beams of moonlight revealed the encampment to be similarly so. There was no sign of Erik, she was alone in the night with only a waning moon and the music for company. It troubled her not, the ethereal pull anesthetized her to all feelings save curiosity, enticing her to unearth its origins, daring her to find its source.

 _Ephemeral, whimsical, compelling_ it lured her. In bold confidence she walked along unshod. She feared not, for nothing could harm her: not root, not thorn, not rock. The music was her sanctity and safeguard and she its disciple. Her soul obeyed its every whim; her heartbeat formed its refrain; her steps matched its tempo. Christine's pace sped up in urgency alongside the melody, which had transitioned from whimsical teasing to gentle pleading to _violent_ longing; it was becoming impatient.

She was running now, dashing towards a finale, the foliage blurring into a long tunnel of green on either side of her. Christine could see the end: stunning, inviting and illuminated by moonlight; racing faster still, her feet carrying her forward with deistic speed, needing the music as much as it did her. Strangely there was not the barest hint of fatigue in her muscles or lungs. Every chord breathed new vigor into her body. Never before had she felt so robust or healthy, this music gave her life.

At last she emerged from the forested labyrinth into a wide clearing. Here there was not tree nor bush, here there was naught but a plush carpeting of grass and a single stationary object in the distance. Whether person or thing, she could not tell. Her momentum reduced to a smooth glide as she approached it, the only other entity in the expanse. Nearer and nearer she walked across a ground softer than velvet, cooler and smoother than satin. It felt wonderful beneath her feet, each blade caressed her soles and tickled her toes.

The music, meanwhile, was no longer imperative but sweet, hesitant and haunting and every bit as alluring; cajoling her the last few steps towards her destination. She was proximate to whatever body (animate or inanimate) lay ahead, its silhouette shifted, clarified, became distinctly _human_ in appearance.

A lone figure veiled in blackness, its back to her. The melody swelled with the thrill of discovery, excitedly rewarding her for a job well done. Slowly the entity turned, the notes faded with each degree of rotation, tapering off completely when _he_ faced her.

 _Erik._

He stood with his hands clasped behind him. There were no sounds other than those of nature; the song had ended, ended with _him_. Erik was the source of it all, he and the music had been one in the same, parts of the same whole.

Shock failed to take root, it was no real surprise. Somehow she had already known the truth. In the dimmest fathoms of her core there dwelt a part irrevocably and inexplicably bound to the music, to _his_ music. The exchange between them was nonverbal but still perfectly received, two souls communicating on a special plane.

Each stepped forward.

 ** _Christine,_** he greeted succinctly.

 _You know._ It came as a statement not a question.

Oddly she felt no panic, no sense of dread that he had uncovered her deepest secret; if anything it was _relief_ that rushed over her. She was _glad_ he knew, now there were no more barriers between them. They both took another step, coming together as unprofaned as the day they were christened: pure and unburdened by sin.

 _ **I always have.**_

The _how_ of the matter dwindled in importance as the space separating them closed. Her breathing grew constrained with anticipation. His jaw clenched with apprehension. A tangible barricade of tension erupted between them but unlike stone or iron one could pass through. All they needed do was reach out.

 _What happens now?_ she asked once they stood near enough to touch.

 ** _Take my hands,_** He offered them to her, palm up and expectant. **_Do not be frightened._**

What would come next? There was only one way to know. Christine reached towards them, shaking with heady nervousness. Her hands hovered over his, separated by millimeters, prepared to seal her fate with a holy palmers' kiss. Closer they edged. She could feel the warmth of his skin.

It was not to be.

Shapes began to flit from the blackness. Acute fear spurred her heart into a frantic gallop. These were not friends but foes of the most malevolent sort. They hemmed in with the precision of a fishing net surrounding and trapping her and Erik.

As the light caught them she could see that the silhouettes had faces. _Awful_ , _leering_ faces: their skin rotting, melting off their bones like candle wax. _Dead._ They were _corpses_. No, not _just_ corpses, corpses of the men who had chased her that night, _the men that Erik had killed._ Each of them wielded a weapon and each oozed vengeance like tarry slime.

Christine was paralyzed by the macabre sight. Her lungs stuttered and refused to inflate; her limbs forgot their function; her brain seized in the constant stream of terror. She was sure to die, her traitorous body willing to abandon her to a gruesome fate. _That's_ when she remembered.

 _Erik._ She was _not_ alone. Her palms were still poised over his, all she had to do was take his hands. A sad, trusting smile graced her lips when she met his eyes and looked down. With horror she noticed that his hands were _different_ , distorted. His long, elegant fingers were now gnarled and deformed, tipped with jagged ebony claws, his palms slick with crimson blood. These were not his, these were frightening, _monstrous_. They were the hands of a vicious, murderous beast. She withdrew hastily but as she did so the space between them also stretched, he was getting farther and farther away.

Then the earth beneath their feet began to buck. Swaying, buckling, and writhing and with a single, mighty rumble it cracked. Over the thunderous rive of splitting earth could be heard the protracted, high-pitched whistle of a bullet. Her gaze snapped up and located the source with horror.

Thirty yards away was the huge, oily brute who had nearly bested them both, a savage smile carved into his hollowed, decomposing features; his pistol was pointed directly at Erik's chest, wisps of smoke curling wickedly from the barrel.

She shrieked as if the noise could shatter the brittle metal before it reached its target. It was too late. His eyes met hers, those eyes where storm, sea, and sky converged and formed a new, nameless color. The calm acceptance that shone within them was heartrending, he had already given up, already embraced his demise. Under them the ground still heaved and lurched, its cracks opening wider, snapping up their dead enemies like morsels until only the two of them were left.

 _Please, no..._ Christine begged someone, anyone.

His gaze glowed bright with _something_ more powerful than life or death. His hand extended towards her face. It dropped before his fingertips grazed her cheek.

 ** _Run._** One word. His _final_ word.

Then he fell back into a rift. He was gone.

Dead.

Again she screamed, her legs failed and she collapsed into a heap. Sobs shook her entire body in time with the tremors, sorrow paralyzed her every part. Erik was dead. It was the truth, the indisputable truth, she had seen it unfold. Christ Almighty, he was _really_ gone, never to return to this world.

 _Gone forever._

Distantly she watched the fissure spread, inching towards her own broken, miserable body. Had she the strength to run she would not flee like a coward. Instead she awaited the end with patient meditation. Just as she had told herself earlier that day, there were worse ways to go. Whatever emotion weighed her down, scorching her chest from the inside, also brought with it a serenity.

The earth beneath her was fracturing, fracturing, shifting, quaking and thundering. Her time was up. Christine took one last deep breath before terra firma crumbled from under her and she too plunged, regretting her decision almost immediately. Dead faces loomed in the darkness, rotten mouths gaping with laughter, insects wriggling between the decaying teeth, threatening to swallow her up. Erik was nowhere in sight. She plummeted _down, down, down_ for hours or days maybe. Until she couldn't remember when she hadn't been falling. All the while the corpses guffawed and leered at her savoring the fear arisen from prolonged death. They could wait an eternity for their meal. What were minutes, years, or decades to the already dead?

Halfheartedly she scoured the abyss for anything to grab ahold of but it was just as that afternoon: nothing but air, hot and sulfurous. The descent stretched onward, her senses growing numb. Then suddenly the rushing draft was replaced by something thick, strong, and immovable.

Vines? Tentacles? Hallucinations? Only cognizant that her movement had been completely arrested, she fought against whatever held her captive tooth and nail flailing, kicking, punching. All to no avail, it only squeezed tighter, shook her harder. A cry, very likely her last, escaped her right before something warm and moist closed over her mouth.

Being robbed of breath, her final sensation.

 ** _Wake up! Come on, you must wake up!_**

Words. A voice.

Her ears recognized _that_ voice; her eyes obeyed it, _h_ _is_ sensational voice, and shot open.

A canvas sky swam into focus. _The tent_. She was in the tent. But how? Erik sat next to her, a trace of alarm in his otherwise impassive gaze, and very much _living_. One hand gripped her shoulder firmly and the other rested solidly over her mouth, so large it spanned earlobe to earlobe.

"You were in danger of waking Saint-Pierre with your screams." he explained, jerking his hands away as if he had laid them in something disgusting. They left a dying heat in their absence.

" _You..._ you're _a-alive._ " Christine whispered as soon as her mouth was uninhibited.

"I should bloody well hope so. Nevertheless, I am sorry to disappoint you." The biting sarcasm did not completely conceal his surprise, which manifested itself in a downward quirk of his lips.

"B-But I _saw..._ I saw you _die._ " Her jaw quivered with the admission as if speaking of it might strike him down on the spot. He studied her curiously, his face unreadable.

"It was a dream, _nothing_ more. Go back to sleep, Christopher."

She wanted to throw her arms around him in celebration then, to embrace him and _never_ let go but the use of her false name stopped her. He was her escort and she was _Christopher_ , the thorn in his side. Were she to reveal herself in that moment she doubted he would have welcomed the gesture any more than if he still believed her a boy. The thought stung keenly for some reason.

"I d-don't want to. W-What if they return?" Sleep still tugged at her eyelids, her body already relaxed and waiting for her to sink into slumber. She fought it, lingering fear keeping her afloat within the realm of consciousness. Christine would not give in, she would not welcome more torment.

"I will be close by," His expression softened, his tone lowering soothingly, "I've already given you my word that nothing will harm you."

Said promise was all it took to allow sleep to claim her. The knowledge of his presence acted as a talisman and kept the bad dreams at bay. Or at least that's what she rationalized, that reassurance prevented further nightmares. Nevertheless she was appreciative and grateful to Erik. A phenomenon, she noted with chagrin, which was becoming somewhat of a frequent occurrence.

One glaring fact surfaced: she cared for him; and _not_ for reasons owing to self-preservation but out of legitimate concern for his welfare. How was such a thing possible? She had known him for less than a week and most of that had been spent quarrelling. Christine had disliked him from the first, she found him repulsive, ill-mannered, arrogant, infuriating, amoral, and beastly. Hardly anything had changed in their few days together. They got on slightly better and the occasional nicety had been exchanged, then there was the business with his wound but at the root of it still remained that initial enmity. And simultaneously at the root of _her_ being there was a tenderness, a compassion for him. It resided deep within but it was there as sure as her heart or soul, lurking: the Mr Hyde to her Dr Jekyll.

 **o o o**

Morning came earlier than ever before and far too soon. They were on their feet, the entire camp packed up, before the sun even thought to rise. There had very nearly been no coffee but Christine had managed to convince him that she needed it if he expected her to travel ahead of the dawn. Reluctantly he had agreed. Though not without staring and hovering to ensure she downed it in what he deemed a 'timely' manner. A fact which, in her opinion, defeated the whole purpose of morning coffee.

The hike itself was better than the day before at least in terms of the general mood. Erik, while not in a temper, was apparently hell-bent on making up for lost progress. By the time the sun fully shone Christine was sweating, gasping and begging for a reprieve. Their stops today were few and far between and, her exhaustion notwithstanding, she took this as a sign that his shoulder was on the mend.

Part of her wondered if his determined pace was a clever strategy to avoid her usual questions and attempts at conversation; it was nigh impossible to speak when one was struggling to catch a breath. She wouldn't be surprised if this turned out to be true. But unknown to him Christine was loath to jeopardize the progress they had made last night for the cheap thrill of irritating him.

Had her dream affected her more than she realized? Good Lord, her brain had to be as fatigued as her body if she was willingly foregoing the chance to annoy him, a pastime which had come to prove endlessly amusing (for her) since they first started off.

However it was not solely the novel want of a truce that interrupted her usual hobby but a combination of things. She hadn't forgotten the kindness Erik had shown after her nightmare, which, loomed over her like a harbinger of some kind; Christine could not determine its significance or, in fact, why it haunted. Then there was also the flora, a greater variance than previous days. It was the last that really bothered her and set the botanist within anxiously cringing because she couldn't study them.

They passed interesting plant after interesting plant and with each her nerves grew more frayed. Plants were the _entire_ reason she had come to Martinique and donned this whole damnable disguise, yet now she was expected to simply disregard her passion and to _what_ end she couldn't speculate. To evade those who sought her? To make better time? To serve Erik's needs? She didn't ken. Nevertheless here she was grinding her teeth, fingers twitching with every flower, shrub, or grass she spotted.

When luncheon rolled round, the sun proudly marking high noon, the urge became too great to ignore. She gobbled her meal of tinned pork and biscuits and extracted a small journal from her rucksack hoping to abscond unnoticed.

Naturally that was _not_ to be the case. Then again, had she genuinely believed otherwise?

"Where are you going?" Erik was staring at her skeptically, head slightly inclined, forehead furrowed, a piece of pork speared at the end of his knife.

Lying was pointless, he had an infuriating talent of seeing through her falsehoods. Well, all except her biggest fabrication... Thank the Lord he was still ignorant of _that_! Christine took a deep breath and closed her eyes for support.

"I've observed several specimens of interest, some of which I've not seen around Saint-Pierre—"

"I assume the specimens to which you refer are plants."

 _Obviously._ What else would they be? Her actual response was more mediated than that of her mind.

"Yes."

Rather than replying immediately he popped the bit of meat into his mouth and chewed slowly. Christine wanted to shake him for the delay, she was already frazzled enough without his games.

"We haven't the time for such frivolities."

"We're already stopped and I've already eaten, surely it makes no difference whether I sit here or walk about." she ground out, trying to keep herself from shouting what she _really_ wished to, something which involved a great deal of swearing.

"I _said_ we haven't the time." he repeated without looking at her.

"And _why_ not?"

"The mountain." Despite his vagueness, she knew to which 'mountain' he referred. Christine suppressed the impulse to roll her eyes, his doom-saying was getting wearisome.

"What of it? I'm positive it will continue to stand if I take five minutes to study the flora."

"Do not be so sure." Erik returned coolly, finishing his lunch.

"If you're referring to yesterday afternoon, tremors have been a regular occurrence since anyone can recall. The elders say the same thing happened fifty years ago, nothing came of it and I'm more inclined to trust their word over yours."

"Then _you_ , young Daaé, are as much a fool as they are." He stood and handed her the rope that tethered them. "Yesterday's earthquake was no benign tremor but a small-scale eruption, a herald for something worse."

Not intent to let the matter go so easily she momentarily put aside thoughts of botany and ran after him arguing all the way.

"Pray, _how_ have you reached this conclusion? I was unaware your specialty was volcanology."

"Mock me if you so desire, little prince, however one needn't be an expert to recognize the indisputable signs."

"And what might said signs be: earthquakes, superstitions, correlations? Have you ever seen a volcano or an eruption?"

"I have seen many both simmering and hibernating but I've not seen one erupt and hope I never will."

"Well, _should_ the cataclysm happen, Pythia, I think we're far enough removed from the mountain to be impacted."

"Perhaps you should reconsider... When Krakatoa erupted twenty years ago it took nearly the entire damn island and most of the archipelago with it. That which was not immediately destroyed was washed away by the subsequent tsunamis, corpses floated about the Sunda Strait and surrounding ocean for months. In the preceding days and weeks there were certain _portents_ , many of which have been happening here: earthquakes, fleeing animals, smoking vents, and floods among other things. A child could recognize the pattern, the foresight of an oracle unnecessary." Christine hid her grin. No matter how repellent she found every other aspect of his personality she was enamored of his scholarship.

"All that from a bit of lava?" The thought hadn't been meant to be spoken aloud.

"Not precisely, no. Lava is not generally harmful, it moves slowly in most cases. The real dangers hail from the surge of heated debris and gases, spates of mud and tsunamis following the eruption."

"Tsunamis?" It was the second time he'd used the term and the first occasion—in recent memory—she had encountered an unfamiliar word in conversation, clearly borrowed from a foreign tongue so her ignorance was not _too_ shameful. Even so that did precious little to assuage her wounded pride over having to ask Erik for clarification.

"A combination of the Japanese words: harbor and wave, an uncommon word in the English language. You would likely know it as a tidal wave, although that term is erroneous as tsunamis are caused by displacement not tides."

Tidal wave. Yes, _that_ phrase she knew. She'd read about these terrible disasters; her mouth dropped into an O at the connection.

"They are but one of an eruption's numerous deadly effects. The first are impossible to outrun and shelter from, so unimaginable is their rapidity, their temperature so high that it melts flesh from bone, not even a barrier of water will spare you; the second creates a raging torrent of mud and ash that buries entire towns and solidifies once it loses momentum, obliterating all in its path; and the third inundates whatever the other two have spared, flooding coastlines and tossing unwary ships inland like toys, waves can reach monstrous heights. All three accompany history's most devastating eruptions: Vesuvius, Tambora, Krakatoa."

It was useless pretending his words didn't send a chill through her. Unconsciously she quickened her steps, throwing wary glances over her shoulder every so often for the rest of the afternoon.

After they had made camp and eaten, Christine tended his wound; it had scabbed, the redness and inflammation already beginning to recede. Satisfied that crisis had been averted she bade him good night.

To her shock Erik crawled into the tent behind her. Was he actually going to sleep tonight? The unfurling of his bedroll confirmed it.

This bizarre turn proved unexpectedly beneficial and soon she was of a mind to sneak off and explore. Presently she lay unmoving and waited for the slow, regular breathing indicating her companion had fallen asleep. Once she was quite sure he had Christine crept outside carefully, silently. The hour wasn't late, by her estimation she had opportunity aplenty to sleep _and_ pursue her hobby. Besides, it was not as if she was impinging on their hiking time.

So she took to the dark that evening, heedless of wrath be it Erik's or La Montagne's.

In the gentle moonlight she traversed the path collecting this or that, bending to gingerly inspect leaves and roots, stroking the velvety petals of the slumbering flowers and rasped tree bark alike.

At night everything seemed more beautiful, _more surreal_ ; she relished how the jungle came alive under the veil of darkness. And, for a period she simply explored content to pretend she had all the time in the world. In eventide she lingered floating along, a spirit trapped in a mortal world, singing a forlorn melody as she went.

However unlike a spectre she could not wander for an eternity.

With a resigned sigh she realized it was wise to turn back; their rapport had considerably improved over the past couple of days and she had no desire to regress to their previous tense silence. Erik would doubtlessly condemn her midnight adventure, it was best to not disturb the peace.

Singing a tune from childhood Christine started upon the path to the shared tent, samples and journal tucked into a little satchel at her hip. It dawned on her then how tired she was, how much she longed for the comfort of her bedroll. Now the only thing remaining was to slip inside unnoticed.

"You have a beautiful voice."

Too late.

Lost in her song she failed to sense she was being watched. A _stupid, stupid_ error. Would she ever learn? The speaker's identity was no mystery. Like a panther, Erik emerged from the shadows, stalking, circling, black as a clouded, moonless night; swiftly he approached. Her limbs seized and she froze on the spot wondering what he would do, wondering and waiting for the mortal blow whether it be dealt by words or claws.

Slowly she opened her eyes when no harm befell her, hazarding a timid glance. He stood a meter away, close enough to see by moonlight, too far to reach out and touch. Within those eyes that crackled with blue fire there was a peculiar look, a nameless thing she couldn't interpret. Attempting to translate his expression was akin to trying to decipher hieroglyphs without the Rosetta Stone, futile _._ His face might as well have been carved from the same kind of rock.

Whatever it was, she found it more discomfiting than his ire; indeed, she'd have been more at ease had she been the recipient of his rage. Erik continued to appraise her, to scrutinize her like she was a relic and he an archaeologist.

Quiescence endured. His inspection was patient; her mind was frantic. One thought kept repeating in her head, echoing as a shout does on a mountaintop... _he had guessed._ She prayed he hadn't, prayed it was paranoia. _Please let it be something else_ , she implored, _I'll suffer anything but that.  
_

Flashbacks from her dream trickled into her ears; _'I always have'_ he had said. But the two situations weren't comparable. The man standing a few feet away was not his dream-world twin, he was wilder, more unpredictable, _more_ _dangerous._

"How old did you say you were?"

The query caught her off-guard. Erik had broken the silence to ask her age. Why? There was no logic in it, none that she could deduce.

"I-I never did. I'm n-nineteen." she replied evenly, tilting her chin in a show of fortitude. Let him play his games, she would not bow so easily.

"Nineteen, you say? _Most_ intriguing." His eyes glowed like twin braziers in the moonlight, alight with strangeness. He took a step nearer, just _one_ , but he might as well have been hovering over her, _touching_ her. Christine's throat tightened and her lungs locked up as rigid as her knees.

" _Why ..._ Why is that?"

"I could be mistaken _but..._ " He trailed off - maybe in contemplation, maybe for effect; the why of it was inconsequential. "If you would humor me by singing again, young Daaé, I'd be better able to provide you with an answer."

Christine was certain she didn't wish to hear the aforementioned answer and even _more_ certain that she needed a diversion.

"I c-can't. _My throat..._ it's too d-dry."

"Too dry?" She nodded unflinchingly. " _Interesting..._ Too dry to sing, not too dry to prattle. A _true_ pity, such a sweet soprano I've never heard. I was unaware that castrati still existed with the practice having been outlawed over thirty years ago."

 _He knew._

He knew and he was only toying with her. Christine spun on her heel and walked off, she could not stay here in this clearing where the air was rank and stagnant and impossible to breathe.

"Where are you going?" The question was merely a whisper but struck a blaring chord in her ears all the same. She paused but didn't turn, unable to bring herself to face him.

"Back to camp."

"Why? You were in no hurry before now, before our paths crossed you were quite content to sing and strut about."

"I'm tired."

It was her second bid at freedom. She took another step forward and was met with a tangible impediment: his hand, around her arm, his fingers overlapping the thin limb. Were his hand a belt, it could have wrapped around her twice or more.

"Exactly _what_ do you think you are doing?"

"I t-told you. I am returning to camp because I'm fagged." Brown irises narrowed and small nostrils flared, lending her the appearance of a small, scaleless dragon. " _If_ you'd so kindly release me," Indignation concealed panic, yet beneath the stoic breast beat a rapid pulse, erratic with fear.

"I don't believe I will... At least not until you sing for me. One song is all I ask, _anything_ of your choosing. Sing for me, Christopher."

The stakes tripled, she had to fold. Even the most oblivious gambler could see that her front had crumbled.

" _Let. me. go._ " she growled through clenched teeth.

"Or...?" In her periphery she could see that he practically gleamed with conquest. " _Or, what?_ What will you do?"

No answer. Subterfuge at an end there was naught she could say. He smirked darkly, fingers maintaining their iron grip. Her own hand twitched with the urge to make contact with his cheek as revenge for exposing her.

"Lyric coloratura," he said on an exhale.

" _What?_ "

"Your voice. I would classify it as a lyric coloratura soprano: rich and bold yet sweet, like a good Sauternes; a favored voice type in Baroque operas."

"You're either drunk or delusional and _wholly_ misguided either way. Now... _let me go!_ "

With supernatural speed, Christine was whirled round and pinned against a tree just as she had been yesterday, both arms ensnared in his grasp. It happened so quickly her brain couldn't process the resulting dizziness.

"I am none of those things. _Least_ of all misguided, you'll find I never am where music is concerned." It was uttered with such raw conviction that it rebounded upon him revealing a secret of his own; her eyes widened as it came to her. Why hadn't she made the connection before?

"It was _you._ " Though audible the statement was meant only for her.

"What?" Now it was his turn to be addressed in ambiguous riddles.

"That night at the bar, that night you followed me... _you_ were the pianist."

" _Yes,_ " he hissed. "So you see, music is a subject as familiar to me as mind and body and your voice is _extremely_ _fascinating_."

"I don't see why it should be. Surely we can have this discussion at another time."

He ignored her request. "I'm sure you're aware of the obvious differences between the male and female voice. Young boys were once castrated to preserve their vocal range before adolescence and while a castrato can sing within the soprano range there are subtle discrepancies between his voice and that of an adult female."

"This is all very captivating, Erik, but I am quite exhausted and—" A firm shake cut her off.

" _What_ are you hiding beneath those pretty curls, _boy_?"

There it was.

She had been found out. Her only hope now was to deflect, perhaps soften the blow.

"You dare accuse _me_ of deception, _you_ who hides behind a mask?" She winced as he pushed her harder, the coarse bark biting into her neck and back.

"I warned you to never again mention it!" Erik snarled.

There was an abrupt shift in the atmosphere. Something was building. Something bigger and deadlier than anger, secrets, or lies, something _terrifying_. Dread began unfurling its petals deep within her, one by one, and it had nothing to do with the raving, murderous man trapping her. _That's_ what truly scared her.

"I did so to illustrate your hypocrisy! You only theorize I harbor a secret whereas you most definitely do, yet I don't corner and interrogate you."

" _ENOUGH!_ " he roared, shoving her into the trunk and yanking her away again, fingers digging into her arms with bruising strength. His incandescent gaze met hers and she found herself petrified and lost and breathless all at once. Before she knew what she was doing Christine reached up her digits grazing the edge of his mask.

"What do _you_ hide, Erik?" She instantly regretted her action when he slammed into the tree a new fury unleashed in his eyes, flinching as she watched his hand raise...

The blow never came, only a thunderous noise that seemingly severed her from reality. Something clapped onto either side of her head. Her ears were covered?

Another furious boom resounded within her chest. The ground contorted, swayed, and shook with untold ferocity. _Just_ like her nightmare. Would ghosts emerge from between the trees? Christine curiously waited to see.

Dimly she was aware that she was moving, pulled along at a frightening pace by an unknown force. Her eyes saw nothing; her ears heard nothing; her body was corporeally there but hollow, her consciousness driven out of its mortal shell by sheer, unfathomable terror; the soft, but firm grip around her wrist the sole thing tethering her to the Earth. Suddenly her legs went cold, now there was more resistance to her movements. Water, mayhap? Still she flitted along without much struggle cool droplets splashing her face and neck. Thereafter came a truly odd feeling... air whipping at her cheeks, stomach floating in her chest, and then a sharp impact and crisp nothingness.

She bobbed, unable to move in this unusual dense, dark place wherein breath couldn't be drawn; though she didn't really wish to and was happy to simply _be_ , sinking deeper into bliss until—rather rudely—she was hauled upwards and deposited onto something hard.

 _Christopher. Christopher! Are you injured?!_

 _That_ voice.

Where had she heard it before? She sat up hesitantly, still engulfed in blackness, still not completely present.

 _Answer me, damn you!_

Someone was speaking, in spite of the gruff swearing, it sounded inhumanly beautiful. There was ... an _angel?_ Almost visible despite the void, she could discern his outline. Could she be dead? She reached out to touch him, yearning to feel his divine form, groping in darkness. Her fingers skimmed material. _Only a few more millimeters..._

A flash of illumination blinded her. Was this what happened when a mortal touched an angel?

Blinking, she lowered the arm shielding her face to find none other than Erik standing there, the otherworldly light emanating from a metal tube in his hand. They were in a cavern of some sort. He crouched before her, his loose khaki tunic and breeches sticking limply to his body, hair sloppily plastered to his forehead, dripping. On his face was an expression of grim concern but in his darkened eyes burned a smug affirmation.

 _He knew._

Positively and irrefutably. _  
_

No more denial.

" _So..._ the little _prince_ is actually a _princess._ " he said softly.

* * *

 **The cat is officially out of the bag... Uh-oh.**

 **A/N: I decided to time the big reveal with the eruption that occurred at 11:30 pm on May 2nd 1902. During April/May 1902, Mount Peleé had a few minor eruptions leading up to the major one on May 8th. Most of the activity leading up to the disastrous event was concentrated in the area around Saint-Pierre, including random river floods (without rain), a lahar (mudslide mentioned by Erik), and a tsunami.**

 **Although the eruption in this chapter was small, both our characters would have heard it even miles away.**

 ***The Pythia is a reference to the oracle at Delphi in ancient Greece and was the mouthpiece of the gods.**

 **Reviews? :)**


	11. In Stygian cave forlorn

**A/N: First off, _so_ sorry for the delay! **

**I've been super busy with work, helping out at my baby brother's regattas, and life in general. For a while every time I got a chance to sit down and work, something or someone called me away; talk about frustrating! This chapter has been ready for weeks, it just took me forever to get it edited and polished up for posting. My schedule has since evened out so with any luck the regular updates will come again.  
**

 **Thank you for the reviews as always. And a special shout-out to Benjamin Lynne Scott who gave me my first ever CC post and was definitely a _lot_ nicer about it than I anticipated. :)  
**

 **To answer: yes, I've always sort of struggled with that. I don't know why, lol. I will try to take your advice into mind when editing future chapters. Let me know if I do any better with it?**

* * *

 **2 May - Night 6**

Erik stared—nay, _ogled_ was the more accurate term—for several minutes which then blended together into a thick, timeless mass. It was all he could do in this place where words had run dry.

What could he say?

What _was_ there _to_ say?

Should he even speak at all? Could he do so with decency? He wracked his brain for something, _anything_ , but came up empty-handed. Somehow he did not recall a chapter in _Civilized Man, The Compleat Gentleman,_ or _Il Cortegiano_ that dealt with the proper reaction for discovering your charge had been lying about their sex from the first.

Improvisation it would have to be then; Erik prayed he could manage it with a modicum of tact.

"I suppose it's not really _Christopher_ , is it?"

Blunt if anything but not abysmally rude. Besides, he could hardly do better at present. But was he _really_ to blame given the circumstances?

Where he had been gawking, her focus was diverted elsewhere: on the cave walls, her wet clothes, her hands, anything removed from _him_. For nothing could have prepared her for what to say now that she had been outed. Should she be wary of him? Should she launch into explanation or defense? Though she had (honestly) overlooked most of her governess' lessons, she doubted the old biddy had ever mentioned what to do when your travel partner uncovered that you had been masquerading as a man. Thus, she decided to keep things elementary - at least to start.

All she could do was answer.

"N-No." Christine admitted, her tongue numb and stumbling; she shook her head for emphasis.

She was conscientious of how stupid she must appear only after the fact stuttering, shaking, and staring at her feet like a craven church mouse. Normally possessed of a wit with the keenness of a double-edged blade this diffidence was, for her, foreign territory; still, she was astute enough to know when to play the demure maid. It was not the moment for biting retorts, doubly so considering tonight's earlier incident regarding his mask - would she have actually dared to unmask him? Christine was unsure. Either way, it appeared Erik had forgotten in the chaos wrought by Peleé's timely intervention, or - in the more likely scenario - chosen to disregard it.

 _If not..._ Christine shuddered. Something told her that she was amongst the few souls to ever mention the mask more than once and survive. Reservation was the wisest course. So, she kept her head bowed, fully cognizant of how his eyes seemed to bore through flesh but giving no reaction other than the barest recoil.

"Would you kindly indulge me with your _actual_ name? After the hell we've just come through I shall not suffer to guess." His tone came more sedate than he himself felt, in spite of a head that churned and pounded, _in spite_ of his being a complete fool.

"It's C-Christine."

Christine...

 _Pretty, feminine, sweet._

It suited her, became her as blush does a rose. Pleasing and womanly without being overwhelmingly so unlike the floral names that were _trés populaire_ amongst both rich and poor. Truly, his response should be one of eloquence befitting a fine English Rose but his tongue did not obey.

" _Ah,_ " was all he said.

Silence followed, a blossoming awkwardness perfuming the stale air. Neither was able to meet the gaze of the other—although Erik _did_ study her whereas Christine's looked everywhere _but_ him—nor did either seem to retain the ability of speech, which, for two souls as vocal and opinionated as they two was quite a sight to behold.

How had he _not_ seen through the charade?

For a man renowned for legendary meticulousness it was, well, _pathetic._ He was a spy for Christ's sake! Deception was his game, yet this slip of a ... girl (he was still wrestling to wrap his head around _that_ ) managed to hoodwink him. It struck a definite blow to his confidence. Now, scrutinizing her, the only thing on his mind was that he should have known.

By God, it was glaringly obvious!

From the beginning there had been something decidedly off about the 'boy' called Christopher _._ The voice had been the stormy petrel, ultimately ignored. Why dwell on the petty when soon after he was literally fighting for their lives?

Along the way there had been other hints which in retrospect were, naturally, conspicuous. Things like the delicate frame, girlish features, long curls, dainty appendages, and the ridiculous obstinacy concerning nature's needs. Each one was written off in turn (those he had cared to perceive), chalked up to the proclivities of a prim, young dandy.

—then there had been that instance when she had landed atop him during yesterday's earthquake...

At the time he was too preoccupied to pay it heed but upon recollection the figure had felt soft in the way only a woman's form could - that alone should have dispelled the entire pretense had he not been so laughably blind. And, _had_ he expended more forethought perhaps he would not currently be gaping like a fish trying to absorb the profundity of it all. Though, in his defense, he had realized the instant he heard her sing; his acute musician's ear hadn't failed him at the very least. Even now in his ringing ears that heavenly voice lingered. Yet such small comforts did precious little to countermand this bombshell.

How naïve was she to believe this farce could endure?

They were to be constant companions for weeks, sooner or later a lapse was guaranteed. Perhaps he would glimpse the cloth that bound her chest, or grow suspicious over her voice, or question her oddness concerning biological matters, or - _God forbid -_ catch her in a state of undress.

There were simply too many variables for which to account and complacency was the fuel of blunders. It was a marvel the pretense had lasted this long, were her future not rife with uncertainty Christine might have felt some sense of achievement; but, as she was so painstakingly aware, even if she didn't incur Erik's wrath Peleé would prove less sympathetic. Their lives could well be snuffed before he thought to mete out punishment.

Reality reared up stark and merciless—

Tonight could be her last... She could die here, trapped in a musty cave with a brigand who couldn't stand her in this unfamiliar land, never to say farewell to papa, Raoul, the servants, or Mrs Giry and Meg.

 _Good Lord, what a dismal fate!_

"D-Do you ... _is it over?_ " She hazarded a tremulous glance upwards. He blinked, his mouth twitching as he emerged from his reverie. Another few seconds trickled away before Erik replied.

"Yes, though I don't advise relaxing your vigilance altogether." Christine nodded dreamily, gnawing her lip whilst hugging her knees to her chest. She no longer cared about stoicism or bravery for pluck was moot in this place where nature reigned exterminating entire towns as if they were insects.

Remorse licked at Erik for his aloofness but he was still reeling. Beyond his mother and the odd servant in boyhood he had not spent much time in the company of women. This remained unchanged when he grew into a man and having no female relations or serious paramours of which to speak left him woefully ignorant on the subject of the fairer sex.

Furthermore, his employment did not afford time for such fruitless diversions. Erik Grey hadn'tbecome a key asset to king and country by chasing skirts and patronizing brothels, not that he could live such an existence with the revolting impediment that was his face; while it encumbered every other aspect of life it proveda capital motivational tool for excellence. Work was his past, present, and future, impartial and dependable - he'd do well to remember that.

Besides, hideous gargoyles did not win the love of the maiden fair: a fact of life and one he had accepted in childhood.

It was just how things were, a veritable truth much like gravity. Some days he was bitter, others he was indifferent.

However, despite his nescience she stirred something within. He couldn't say what yet he knew he had to act else the girl was apt to go mad with fear. Not knowing what else to do, he spoke.

"Did your drawings survive?" The query felt heavy and stupid on his tongue. Here, they had just fled for their lives and he was asking about trivial fripperies. Still her tension lessened ever so slightly; talking appeared to put her at ease. _Good_. He could at least provide her this basic form of reassurance.

"I did not bring them, it was too dark to sketch so I instead brought my journal and took c-clippings."

"And how did they fare?"

Making such small talk was inelegant, Erik had never been a skilled conversationalist. Nevertheless he resolved to make an effort for Christine's benefit, especially since he had no soft blankets, hot drinks, or whatever other creature comforts frightened hens desired. Hopefully his uncouth attempts were of some help to the beautiful creature who sat before him trembling with terror and cold.

Yes, she was undeniably a vision, it was folly to pretend otherwise. Although, their current situation precluded any enticements that might normally accompany this realization, for that he was thankful - not that he was so wretched that anything with a halfway pleasing figure and sweet features could tempt him beyond all rationality; it wasn't as though he was a hermit living underground who had never laid eyes on a bonny maid!

Christine sheepishly reached into the satchel that hung at her hip as if afraid of what she might find. What she did extract was an unequivocally pitiful sight, soggy and leaking black-tinged water, clearly ruined. Even so she cautiously opened it, dark eyes wide and expectant with a juvenile need for confirmation, the optimism with which she turned the pages almost endearing; the ink had run, rendering everything a mess of diluted black streaks and puddles, every page revealed more of the same. Eventually it was doffed with a careless toss.

"Not well." she muttered, head downcast.

"Perhaps your samples got on better."

Her eyes flashed as she eagerly plunged her hand into the bag once more, withdrawing it immediately with a sharp gasp. The question was written clearly enough in his expression to make voicing it redundant.

"It's n-nothing, only something poked me." She held her arm at her side defensively careful to keep the limb hidden in shadow; her air was one of poorly-feigned nonchalance. The color had fled her cheeks, and from the crease between her brows and the taut draw of her lips it was apparent she was in pain.

Though this stubborn display of bravado irritated him, Erik said nothing. He had grown weary of argument and had no mind to deal with her childish reasoning. Triply so tonight. Let her have her moment of rebellious obstinacy, let her pretend. Discomfort or curiosity would ultimately overwhelm pride, this he knew from personal experience.

If he still harbored any residual shock or awe over the revelation that he had this entire time been in the presence of an angel it promptly faded with the resurgence of her infuriating frontage. Christine was every bit as annoyingly pig-headed and proud as Christopher had been. Really, the only difference was biological, within every other regard they were one in the same.

This alone made it all too easy to break the sway of a pretty face.

Instead he diverted his attention to inspecting the cave, unintentionally discovered after their earlier plunge. Rock surrounded them on three sides, the fourth comprised by the curtain of water cascading from the ledge five or so meters above. It was a rather small space, no more than twenty feet in all directions, hollowed out by centuries of flowing water. The floor was considerably narrower owing to the river pooling within, still the little snatch of shore was large enough for the two of them to stretch out and would prove adequate for the span of a single night. Soon his wait paid off, from his periphery Erik spied her timidly bring her wounded hand into view.

Reflexively she tried to close it, ball it into a fist and minimize the pain, but her efforts only resulted in a whimper. The hand fell open, the palm already dyed crimson, jagged pieces of glass lodged in the flesh like rocks jutting out of the sea. Blood dripped onto the ground while she continued to stare in shock.

Erik stepped towards her, his own hand outstretched, before he was even aware he had done. She stepped back, shying away in the same manner as might an injured animal. Such a wretched sight she made that his ire somewhat ebbed. The fluctuation bothered him. How was it that this stupid little girl could give rise to such odd and conflicting emotions? Erik found himself wanting to tend her and not solely because she was his temporary charge.

"Let me see." he ordered, resisting the urge to come closer, fighting get control of himself and this unwelcome internal struggle. Her injury was minor, so why did seeing her in distress cause so much disquiet? Erik was no stranger to maiming or death or the gore that invariably accompanied those two things.

So what then was the explanation?

Deep within his core there had always been a tenderness, something Erik supposedly had inherited from his mother. In war and travels both he seen unspeakable evils: women and girls raped and mutilated, boys tortured and hanged, babes torn from the breast and left to die, the old and ill shot where they rested. He had committed his own share of atrocities, though none so heinous, still he had killed innocent men. And with every sin witnessed and perpetrated he drew on this compassion to reassure himself of his humanity, to convince himself he was not a _complete_ monster.

Any present upset had to be related, the alternative was unfathomable.

He had most definitely _not_ come to care for the girl, this incarnate unwanted burden, as exasperating as she was outspoken! He was _not_ turning into a simpering milksop!

" _Please_." he tagged onto his prior command as a brusque afterthought.

"T-The vials must be b-broken..." Her lip wobbled but no tears fell.

"I'd have never guessed." Erik rolled his eyes, unable to restrain his causticity. "Could _that_ be why there is glass embedded in your palm?"

"It's fine, _really_. It looks worse than it is, I can care for it myself. I'll just go wash it off and—"

His warmth vanished when she stood, holding the afflicted limb rigid. It was becoming increasingly difficult to curb his temper. And how could he with her insistence on being intolerable? Mere minutes had elapsed and already he needed a respite. The realization that he would get no such pleasure further soured his mood.

"Must I again reiterate that you are an abhorrent liar? Not that it matters. I distinctly recall not being afforded any choice last night nor have _you_ one presently. If you think I will hesitate to restrain you so that I may examine your laceration, you've not learnt much from my company."

Although his voice was calm and measured none with ears could miss the steely threat in his tone. A shiver raced down her spine. Never before had she met someone who intimidated more easily with a whisper than some did by shouting. There was a dangerous aura about him almost visible in its intensity, one which proclaimed that no idle warnings fell from his lips. Christine knew that he would resort to trussing her like a game bird without pause.

Most men would not dare treat her so after learning she was a woman. _M_ _ost men_ would be courteous and chivalrous, but she'd sooner get such a hospitable response from a wolf than from Erik. He was the epitome of a bully, the arrogant type of man unused to opposition, intractable rather than cruel, _not_ the gallant sort to extend any mildness by virtue of her sex. Christine was, surprisingly and for the first time in her life, resentful at his lack of courtesy.

What was wrong with her? She never wished to be coddled and handled delicately as ladies were, she usually found such behavior insulting! In her resultant anger she whirled around to face him, bristling as much at her own weakness as his boorishness.

"Oh, _yes_ , how _could_ I have forgotten what a villain you are when you take every opportunity to show me?" Chocolate eyes narrowed, her tongue itching to make her opinion known, then, realizing he would likely _not_ balk at gagging her too, she closed her mouth sagely and instead fixed him with a venomous stare. It had no impact. Erik simply motioned for her to sit, though she swore his eyes flashed with a victorious glimmer.

Christine huffed and plopped temperamentally onto the rocky ledge, grimacing when her tailbone met the unforgiving hardness.

"I requested neither forgetfulness nor absolution." he returned, moving to kneel before her. "You'll pardon me for not being _too_ dejected, little princess."

Did he have to pile on insult in addition to humiliating her?

"I _have_ a name." she gritted, "What was the point of your asking if you planned to keep referring to me by the same insulting nickname?"

" _Not_ the same. One is the feminine equivalent and offshoot of the other; the masculine form predates it by two centuries." Erik's smug gaze met hers briefly as he inspected her hand, they recalled a changeable sky and she could not think of any other thing so very appropriate as their color. The color of storm clouds, and similarly lofty and foreboding, they shone with confidence: the certitude of omnipotence.

"I think you a harrier and a brute, just so you know." Christine said tartly, glaring at the top of his head with contempt.

He looked up, sporting that rakish smirk she consistently wanted to dash from his face. "Then _you_ should know that I could not care less about your opinion. Now, could I trouble you to hold the light with your left hand?"

She took the bizarre lamp from him; it was heavier than expected. Thoughts of cracking it against his skull came to mind, bringing a smile to her face despite her wickedly stinging hand. "What do you call this? I've never seen anything of its like."

"To my knowledge there is _nothing_ comparable. At its root it is a battery powered flashlight. One I have extensively modified for increased practicality, _still_ its usefulness is limited, I'll need to turn it off after I've seen to your hand or it will exhaust itself."

"But then it will be dark..." she stated emphatically.

"That _is_ generally the case when one spends the night in a cave."

"Will you light a fire?"

"No. The cavern is not nearly well-ventilated enough, the smoke would asphyxiate us."

"Oh."

It was difficult to keep her disappointment hidden. While she wasn't afraid of the dark, the prospect of night's inky veil did not serve to quieten her already frayed nerves. Christine opened her mouth to tell him as much, but her apprehension melted away the instant his skin made contact with hers. His touch was remarkably gentle, enough to strike her dumb. Slowly he laid her palm open coaxing her fingers to splay; she bit her cheek too late to stifle the gasp.

"Did I hurt you? I've done nothing yet, only look." Christine shook her head, face suddenly flush with embarrassment.

"It won't get any better, there's no sense in pretending." The grim condolence flickering in his eyes substantiated his words. "Hold still, I'll need to extract each piece with tweezers; flushing it will prove more agonizing than the removal itself."

"The pain couldn't possibly be worse than your bedside manner."

Her gibe provoked one of his distinctive quirks of lip - somewhere between smirk and actual smile. "No, I suppose not. Forgive my bluntness, but I thought you'd prefer honesty over appeasement."

"I do, thank you. If I didn't know better, I'd think you spoke from experience. Is handling broken glass a typical hobby of assassins and criminals?"

This jest had the opposite effect of the first, his lips retracted and reformed into a somber line. "When I was a boy some years younger than yourself I fell upon the shattered remnants of bottles, an old sailor tended me. He produced two flasks of rum, one he placed in my hand and the other he used to clean the wounds. I refused to make a sound during. Sometimes I wonder whether or not I should have screamed myself hoarse, but I suppose the point is moot now."

The anecdote left Christine baffled. Was this was his own odd way of permitting her to show weakness, of disclosing that he would not think any less of her for it?

"Would you like a few swigs before I begin?" She gave a nod of affirmation, if ever there were a better reason for imbibing she knew not of it. Thankfully he did not call out her hypocrisy. Slowly, Erik brought the flask to her lips, tipping until the foul-tasting liquid filled her mouth and lowering it again. Christine swallowed, the burn of spirits assaulting her throat. Twice more he repeated his actions, twice more she gulped the vile swill and managed not to retch, and all the while his eyes never left hers. The gesture was shockingly intimate. A shudder swept over her, gooseflesh stippling her skin; giddy warmth blossomed within her abdomen. Neither had much to do with liquor and _everything_ to do with...

"Deep breath." Erik ordered.

Already her limbs tingled and her head swam, she felt lighter all over. Intoxication was not so bad. She did not register the first extraction nor the second; the third only pinched a _touch_. But by the fourth, alcohol's pleasant fog had faded and with the fifth she was on the verge of tears; Christine did not blink them back as the sixth came out.

"Who knows?"

Speech sounded invasive in this place of misery, pain, and rum. Her tongue was thick and dry. " _W-What?_ "

"Your secret! To what else would I be referring?"

" _Just_ —just _you_... you, and papa, and R-Raoul. It's not something I did out of enjoyment." she retorted pettishly, clenching her jaw as another shard was tugged free.

"No, I should think not." He dropped the jagged bit onto the piece of cloth alongside its brothers. "All for the love of plants?"

In a rare moment there was no sarcasm veiled within his words. He seemed to understand. How was that possible when the two people dearest to her heart didn't even attempt to do so?

While they accepted her decision graciously it was evident they didn't grasp her reasoning. But this was expected, after all, what man _could_ truly comprehend? They had free reign of the world whilst ladies were confined to their parlors or fashionable spaces. What would Raoul and papa know of constraint? A man could be restricted by his station but never could a woman hope to enjoy the same freedoms as even the poorest fellow.

" _All for the love of plants._ " Christine echoed with a shy grin.

Erik returned a semblance of her smile and her heartbeat stuttered. "Absolutely extraordinary, young Daaé. Plants, _imagine!_ " He gave an affable snort, "To risk discovery and virtue for the chance to study flora? _Pure_ madness."

Her nervous joy quickly evaporated. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe he did think her barmy. "You mock me."

"Not at all. In fact, I'm rather impressed. Most would chose to sneak into lecture halls or pore over scholarly works. How did you come to be so interested in botany?"

Was he inquiring about her past, _actually_ trying to learn about her? Or did he ask to distract her from the pain? The queer squirming sensation returned to her belly, _clearly_ the byproduct of indulgence.

"My childhood was ... _secluded._ It wasn't unpleasant in the least, do not misunderstand. After mamma died giving birth to me, papa never remarried. I was all he had, and while I had a governess and tutors, he saw to a good deal of my education himself; it was from him that I inherited my curiosity and love of reading. I even accompanied him when business took him to the Continent. He would go conduct his affairs whilst I sat in the hotel devouring every book I could get my hands on. More often than not I was bored but there was this _one_ day... In honor of whatever contract papa secured, we were permitted to tour the orangerie at Laeken in Brussels. I had never observed such beauty in the world before, so many flowers, trees, and shrubs... ones I'd never seen, ones so rare that they existed almost nowhere else on Earth, ones I'm not likely to see again in my lifetime. All I could do was stare in awe. Afterwards nothing looked the same to me. When I returned to England I convinced Raoul to help me build my own orangerie in a disused barn. It was an unsuccessful venture, neither of us knew that cut flowers wouldn't flourish. He went out and picked more to cheer me up." She smiled wistfully, "Poor, sweet Raoul. We were both such fools then, though he hasn't completely grown out of it still."

Suddenly her expression fell; she swallowed. "D-Do you think he's all right? _That is,_ with everything you described the other day, you don't _think..._ " Christine could not finish, the word itself too awful to fathom.

"No." he said firmly. "This eruption seemed minor. All the same, I think it wise to stay here for the time being." She gave half a nod, her preoccupation evident. Erik correctly chose that moment to douse the wound, first with water then with spirits, holding the hand motionless until it dried; the girl didn't even flinch.

Carefully he rested her hand upon his knee while he tore a strip from the driest part of his shirt; the bandage would have to serve for now. She was still a prisoner to her thoughts. He frowned. _Say something_ , a voice within urged.

"Eruptions such as these are all bluster..."

Brown eyes locked onto to his blue; he had her attention. "What do you mean?"

"While the town of Saint-Pierre may have been consumed tonight, it will have been by fear rather than lava. The expedition has likely been aborted and your peers will be evacuated come morning. I take it you and the boy are close then?" For whatever reason, one he endeavored _not_ to investigate, the prospect perturbed him. _Probably_ because the boy seemed every bit as vapid as his airy golden locks and such a companion did _nothing_ to complement Christine's intelligence. _Yes_ , _that is undoubtedly it_ , he told himself as he set to bandaging.

"He's the brother I never had. I _do_ love papa but I'd have also loved a sibling. Raoul was my only friend in childhood. Do you have any?"

Erik gave the cloth too-sharp a tug, issuing a gruff apology when she blanched. He hadn't expect the conversation to turn to _his_ person. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably yet there was no turning back. "Any what?"

"Siblings."

One word and his agreeable mood was stamped out.

 _Siblings. Brothers._

Fate was a spiteful, venomous bitch.

"I _had_ a younger brother and could have more, but I neither know nor care." His voice was brittle as ice and every bit as cold.

"Had?"

"Dead."

" _Oh!_ " She exhaled, freshly bandaged hand flying to her mouth, "I am _so_ sorry... I _never_ meant to... please, forgive me for—"

The condolences were waved aside impatiently, "Do not trouble yourself over it. We were not close, neither in age nor in any other sense."

The lie was _almost_ believable. Though, strictly speaking, it was not _untrue_ , they hadn't been close until three years previous. This only enhanced his loss: he had scarcely been allowed a chance to know his brother, to know _love_. All those wasted years between them and all because of the whims of a selfish, resentful boy, _his whims._

"But what of the others?"

"What?!" he snapped harshly.

"Only I am confused, you said you _c-could_ have more siblings."

"My father remarried after my mother's death. I was thirteen and my late brother an infant, I do not know what became of the marriage or if the woman bore him any additional children, I left home on a steamer bound for the Orient shortly thereafter."

"At thirteen?"

"Questions, unrelenting questions, _always_ an endless barrage! Are you incapable of silence?!" Erik flew to his feet leaving the girl round-eyed, huddled and quivering. " _Christ_ , it's a small wonder you didn't give yourself away sooner with your constant harping!"

This stifling, dank air was suffocating. He _wouldn't_ do it! She _could not_ make him! He _would_ _not_ relive the past, the guilt, the suffering! Didn't she know? He had already revisited every damnable minute a thousand times over, it was the personal hell he lived _every,_ _single_ day. Without a backward glance he strode towards the blessed freedom of the open night.

It was so close! The sweetness of escape an electric thrill on his tongue when a small, tremor of a voice stopped him dead.

"E-Erik? W-Where are you going?"

 _God damn this island! God damn this entire mission! And God damn her!  
_

Against rational judgment he turned, baffled to see she was standing behind him. "To collect our supplies. We have no provisions, clothes, nor anything else of use. Try to sleep if you can, I will not be overlong. Sleeping wet is not harmful in this clime but you must remove your socks and boots. Give me the light, I will bring back a lantern."

" _No!_ " Something latched securely onto his arm, he looked at the hand dazedly.

Christine released his sleeve. "Please, can it not wait until morning?"

"I would prefer—"

" _Please,_ " she beseeched again, " _I_ ... I d-don't wish to be left alone." Erik surveyed her intently.

"Very well. I will wait until dawn. Hand me the light." He took it with a sigh and sat down, his back touching the wall; unable to determine _what_ exactly had made him accede to such a demand. "You'd be wise to get as comfortable as our accommodations will allow." And with that there was no more light.

Christine tried several positions, each of them as unsuccessful and uncomfortable as the last. Here there was a pebble burrowing into her spine, there the uneven stone floor bit into her skull, this place made her shoulder ache, that one bruised her elbows. _He_ watched her throughout the entire ordeal, probably relishing in her hardship.

"Oh, _for the love of_ _God!_ You'll find no restful place upon the floor, unless you are more dog than girl. _Are you?!_ Do hide a tail in those bagging trousers?"

A stunned shake of head. "No?" Erik scoffed. " _Well_ , come here then!"

"Why? Have you a spare feather mattress you've neglected to mention?"

 _So_ _the little dog had rediscovered her bite..._ The corner of his mouth twinged in amusement. He preferred _this_ side of her.

"Rest against the wall, it isn't ideal but better than the floor."

Haltingly she sank down beside him, resuming her fidgeting, sighing and grumbling under her breath. He grit his teeth, attempting to check his temper. In his defense, it _did_ work for a short while. "What is it _this_ time?" he hissed.

"The rock is jabbing into my head."

"Lay it upon my shoulder if it will keep you still." His suggestion came without consideration of consequence. Only when he felt the warm weight of her head, the crown of curls tickling his neck, did it register. God, what had he done? The more relaxed she grew, the more discomfited he became never having been one for physical contact. Unease heightened his senses, rendering him hyper-aware of her every aspect, every noise, every heartbeat. Tension seeped into his muscles, stiffening them as her breathing issued forth in a contented rhythm.

 _Already asleep_ , it seemed. No such fortune would be his tonight. With no other recourse, Erik retreated into his musings, at least he could have this small reprieve.

"Erik?"

 _Not asleep after all._

"Young Daaé?"

"Uh, do you think you could... well, umm..." He felt the vibrations of her indecision resonating within his shoulder. It vexed, but why he could not say, the sensation was not unpleasant. Perhaps it was his aversion to touch. _Yes_ , that was it.

Now what the devil did she want?

"Spit it out, girl!" Erik bellowed, eager to return to his thoughts.

"Could— _would_ you talk to me?"

Was she deluded and speaking in her sleep?

"Am I currently doing otherwise?"

"I meant... _talk_ , tell me a story or—"

"I do not know any."

"Please? Anything would do."

"Aren't you past the age for bedtime stories?"

"I can't sleep."

"I doubt conversation is a remedy."

"It isn't. _Just..._ _I_ —your voice is soothing, h-hearing it I mean. I don't need a fairy tale, tell me of the Orient, _p-please_."

Strange, how words could quench a man's breath as effectively as any punch.

 _Soothing?_ She found his voice soothing? Over the years he had heard it described many ways—unnatural, entrancing, terrifying, evil, beautiful—but never was soothing included amongst them. He did not know what to feel or how to react, it was as if the world had been turned on its head. Through his stupefaction he processed only the pressure on his shoulder, the weight of her lingering request, and an unidentifiable heaviness floating within his ribs.

Ignorant of why he should be so affected he began to speak, the words sounding slow and distant to his ears. "It all seems so far off now, that part of my life, like recalling a dream. The details are still clear, every moment perfectly preserved, but still each image is foggy, hazy, _blurred_. I'm left only with those things which I cannot refute, those things which are concrete: smells, sounds, feelings, tastes. A man cannot trust his eyes, especially as a lens to his past. If I close them I can feel the gentle sway of the waves under the hull, remember when we would go ashore, the smell of jasmine, camellia, and honeysuckle, the tang of spices that electrified the air; I can hear snippets, words, which at first sounded strange and foreign but quickly became as familiar to me as my mother tongue; I know the sultry dew of humidity when it caresses my skin. All these sensations I have lived and each is emblazoned into my soul, they are all of them a part of me."

And so he continued, talking of strange flora and fauna, of the natives and their villages, of train rides and jungle treks until her body sagged and her breath became even with slumber, finding—to his surprise—relaxation engulf him as well; not sleep but instead a general serenity.

Erik took it graciously. He knew not what tomorrow brought nor how to process his warring emotions however for a fleeting spell nothing mattered outside of the cave and the weight of Christine's head on his shoulder.

* * *

 **Well, now the reveal is out of the way. I'm sure nobody has to think very hard what comes next. ;)**

 **A/N: Don't worry, it won't be a 'lust at first sight' scenario for either of them! After all this is a HUGE bombshell and both are stubborn and outspoken. There will be lots more conflicting emotion and some lovely angst to accompany it but it will progress gradually (and believably).**

 **Keep in mind neither of our characters has any real experience with romantic relationships so even if they acknowledged a mutual attraction, their first step would not be to act on these feelings. But I promise it _will_ happen after the tension reaches a breaking point. **

**Clearly _something_ is there! Although I believe Christine is more impacted by it than Erik, at least where we are right now. She is (at least unconsciously) developing a bit of a crush on him because he's unlike anyone she's ever met and treats her as more than a gender. Whereas Erik is stuck at a juncture between indifference and actually beginning to appreciate her as a person. Their personalities still clash but the spark is there and that's what counts.**

 ** _*Civilized Man, The Compleat Gentleman,_ and _Il Cortegiano_ are all manuals of gentlemanly conduct, essentially etiquette guides.**


	12. Truce

**A/N: This summer has been anything but restful between work and vacations! At any rate, I've been writing a lot here and there, I just haven't had the time to edit and post. Sorry about that!**

* * *

 **3 May - Day 6**

Damp, unshod, uncovered, and crammed upright on a mattress of implacable stone Christine slept remarkably well. _And_ as with nearly every godforsaken day on this hellish journey, morning came too soon.

She inhabited that lovely space between dreams and reality, that place where illusion seemed too realistic to be conjured yet too flawless to be natural. Christine sat in the drawing room upon a sofa of blush brocade. It was her favorite piece of furniture, more elaborate than all others with its gilding and - _some_ would say - rather out of place anywhere but a grand Baroque house, so vastly unsuited to her taste—opulent, bordering on tactless—and had it not been her father's wedding present to her mother, she'd have sent it to the attics. Perhaps it could be ascribed to the silliness of a lonely, motherless child but she felt a bizarre connection to it.

An _odd_ thing, introspection within a dream.

A tinkling, girlish giggle reminded her that she had company. Papa and Raoul were there, as were Meg and Mrs Giry, the stern matron held a box of tied with a green ribbon: a gift of her favorite Parisian chocolates. The two men talked animatedly about business, their voices mingling with Meg's excited chatter; the clock on the mantle revealed it to be exactly half past four: time for afternoon tea.

Ever dependable, Mrs Burns entered the room bringing tea and delectable cakes enough for all. Christine could very nearly taste the sweetness of currants and spongecake upon her tongue, her mouth watering eagerly. No more cold tinned meats and fruits with that lingering metallic tang; no more biting insects, ill-fitting garments or sore feet; no more dour, unsociable company or spartan sleeping arrangements. Here was _everything_ , the _only_ thing, she wanted since beginning this island-wide walkabout.

Yet gazing upon the smiling faces of those dearest to her, it was not joy but emptiness that she felt; a vacuity for which she couldn't account other than to realize that something was absent, though she hadn't a clue what or (possibly) whom. Her dream progressed indifferently around her, as detached from her as she from it: noise in the background. What was responsible for this feeling and, more importantly, _why_ was she dwelling on something she could neither name nor place? Why ruin such a lovely escape over a cryptic inkling? Who could say when she would next sip a proper cup of tea or feel the silken thickness of cream against her palate?

Ridiculous! She was being ridiculous. Still, she could not dismiss the notion and feared she might go mad until she heard _it._

Over the din of conversation, _another_ voice: one so singular that it would stand out amidst a crowd, one she had come to know, to _dread, revere, hate,_ and _love_ at the same time. It whispered her name, spoke it with the same deference afforded by a goddess.

 _Christine..._

Never had something common sounded so beautiful.

At once the _answer_ came to her, a ray of sunshine blazing through thick clouds. And instantly she _knew_. Confirmation stood tall, unabashed in the doorway.

 _Him_.

That which she had been missing all along was _him_. She didn't pause to ponder or question immediately rising to go to him. No one else noticed, nor did they particularly matter; they might as well have been strangers spied through the window of a moving train.

Steady but surefooted, she walked towards the door, towards _Erik_ : the only clear figure in sight. Just as in her other dream she was drawn to him, lured by some invisible tether palpable in its dynamism. Powerful, heady, even devoid of music.

Almost as if by cosmic directive or jape (she was unsure which) they were mere parts of the same whole, longing to be reunited.

Each step simultaneously left her both jittery and assured; Christine couldn't recall ever being so lamentably contrary. However, this effect seemed a typical byproduct of interaction with Erik; from the first he had proven himself abnormal in every regard, certainly no _other_ person caused her to question the existence of angels, spectres, and demons nor had a simple stare ever disquieted her so. True to form, those eyes were fixed upon her, twin beacons— _searchlights_ —that licked her skin and caused the blood to rise to the surface in a prickly, uncomfortable wave of heat.

When she came closer, he mutely extended his hands. This time she didn't hesitate to take them, to lay her palms flat unto his in a Holy Palmer's kiss. His eyes narrowed fleetingly in triumph, his chin tipped haughtily, despite the mask obscuring most of his face his expression was one of lambent arrogance. _Curious,_ she noted concisely before his thumbs began to stroke her knuckles and her every thought was promptly silenced, their texture at the forefront of her muddled mind, deliberate but uncertain in the way they lingered mid-stroke, roughened enough to awaken the nerves without being overly soft or too coarse. Gooseflesh rippled up her forearms, each fine hair standing rigid. Precisely how he made a simple touch so intimate Christine couldn't fathom as she tried to catch her racing heart.

Her head was spiralling, turning round and round like the rides at Steeplechase Park, _exactly_ as it had hours earlier when he tended her hand. Only now it was clear that the alcohol had played a minimal - if _any_ \- role. With a gulp she met his gaze.

 _Where are we going?_ The question was nonverbal, etched bright within her eyes.

 _Trust me,_ bade his in reply.

One small, quivering nod from her and the cozy familiarity of the room melted away, replaced by an alien landscape. Neither here nor there, wherever it was: a train platform between two stations. It was thrilling, travelling unfettered, free with any destination as likely as the next: Paris, Russia, India, Greece, Giza... in which exotic locale would this spinning globe land them?

Faster and faster they whirled amidst these blurry, ever-evolving surroundings. _Don't blink or you'll miss it_ , said a tiny voice. But the constant revolution was so dizzying she was sure her head would spin off her shoulders; she couldn't help herself. The moment her eyes reopened, in that tenth of a second, they had arrived.

Christine blinked again to steady herself, her legs weak, distrustful of solid ground as if she had departed a boat after days at sea. It was night, yet no moon or stars shone. Eyes useless without light, she concentrated on her other senses: a playful breeze kissed her cheek, scattering her hair, sticky and slightly stinging. _Salt._ Rumbles of thunder in the distance heralded a coming storm, the unmistakable crashing of waves against rock acting as the welcoming drums.

They were on a coast somewhere.

Imbued by the rush, she focused and reached out again curious what else she might discover. Wind, salt, waves abuzz with excitement _and_ the warm solidity of another body behind hers, a second source of breeze, this one more gentle, tickling the hairs at her nape. She was not alone.

Then she remembered: the drawing room; her friends and family; the forlorn sense of something missing; Erik, placing her hands in his...

 _He_ was the one who brought her here. Erik was here, with her; the revelation aroused a nervous joy.

 ** _Where are we?_** Whether the words were asked aloud or within her head, she was unsure.

 _Can you not taste the tang of salt in the air? Hear the roar of churning ocean? We are by the sea._

 ** _Yes, but where?_**

 _Does it matter?_ She shook her head. _Do you wish to know why I chose this place_ _?_ _It's because you remind me of the sea._

 ** _How?_**

 _The sea can be tamed by no man, she is wild, powerful, mysterious, and beautiful. Few things in nature can compare to her allure or the intoxicating song of her waves. Nurturing, she can sustain whole civilizations, and yet can destroy with one tantrum; she can fulfill a man's needs and just as easily steal his soul..._ Christine was drunk off his voice, relishing in its deep, velvet tones, allowing it to wrap around her like a cashmere shawl. Maddening and titillating at the same time and she could not get enough, she _ached_ for it, as an addict does for drink or morphine. As he spoke his hands came to rest on her shoulders and her breath caught.

 _There is nothing quite akin to the coast on the brink of a storm. Do you feel the way the air buzzes as if alive? Do you feel the pull of the waves strengthening? The strange, electric magnetism that precedes the blustering wind and driving rain? Close your eyes and_ feel _, Christine._

She did as instructed, though it struck her as absurd initially.

But she could indeed feel it. The cadence of the waves increasing, the crackling static of the air, the beginnings of mist, the way the wind seemed to howl her name.

 _Christine..._

 _Christine..._

"Christine!"

Suddenly she awakened, eyes flying open. Gone was the breeze, the sea, the wild freedom of it all, disappeared into nothing. She was back in the cavern from last night, something hard digging into her cheek.

"Do you mind?" it asked.

Briefly she mused if rocks could talk before realizing that stone was neither warm nor did it breathe and jolted upright in alarm. The thing upon which she had been resting gave a sigh of relief.

"Sorry." It was an automatic statement, though she unaware for _what_ she was apologizing or to _whom_. A familiar voice spoke—dispelling all questions—and her stomach sank.

"I trust you slept decently?"

 _Phenomenally._

That was to say, her dream had been rather pleasant.

" _I..._ er, _yes_ , thank you." Not sure why she had thanked him but uncomfortable all the same Christine shifted her attention to the cave walls, she was unable to look at him so close on the heels of her unusual vision.

Morning brought little change to their refuge, any light that managed to find its way inside interrupted by the sheets of tumbling water. The space and its inherent dreariness would not be missed, it had served its function and she was keen to move on. While she had never been disposed to claustrophobia there was a stifling sense of confinement, and trapped here with him and this tension the feeling was magnified tenfold. Did he perceive it as well or was her mind deteriorating?

However, she wasn't to find out, Erik was already donning his boots and gaiters. She rubbed her eyes sluggishly, glad to leave but annoyed by his hastiness. After all, there was no breakfast nor coffee to complement it. How could he expect her to disembark after being awake for a scant five minutes? With no coffee either!

"Must we set out so early?" she complained. The scuffling of laces against leather was the only response she received. "I mean, shouldn't we wait until we're positive there's no danger?"

"We are already behind, I'll not see more time squandered." he said flatly, and without so much as a pause he walked off.

Why was he so detestably headstrong? She hadn't a chance to rub the sleep from her eyes and here Erik was leaving ... and without her!

" _Wait!_ "

When it became apparent he had no intention of doing so she jumped up on one foot, boot dangling off the other and followed after him in an awkward, shuffling hop.

"Punctuality may _your_ sole interest but _I_ think it idiotic to depart so soon. What if it's not safe? _Need_ I remind you that—" Erik rounded on her then. His sudden movements hardly startled her anymore and she returned his stare coolly, unaffected.

"And need I remind _you_ , girl, that the decision is not yours?"

Ah, so he was spoiling for a fight? _Well_ , by God, he'd have one!

Christine's cheeks blazed crimson as her anger finally boiled over, his dismissive address the final push. "I have _every_ bit as much say as you do, I too am a party on this trek!"

"Yes, and I am your superior, therefore _I instruct, you obey._ I know the concept eludes your comprehension but—"

" _My superior?!_ " Her voice cracked with the incredulous shriek, "You _delusional, conceited ..._ bounder! _Just_ because I am a woman does _not_ give you the authority to act as if you are my master!"

A scathing chuckle sliced through the air, rife with dark mirth. She wanted to hit him more than ever. " _This_ is what you believe, that my authority stems from prejudice?"

"I certainly cannot see any other reasoning, or perhaps it simply escapes the feeble cognizance endemic to my sex!"

Never before had Erik considered harming a woman, no matter how grievous her offense. Those who did were sordid, impotent caitiffs, worthy only of death. Last night he had almost lashed out, not consciously, but as a violent reflex to his impending unmasking. Though replete with shame and self-loathing over his monstrous behavior, he questioned if his convictions merited reassessment, the thought of giving her a firm, well-deserved shake immensely pleasing; not to injure, _no_ , but to stun into silence.

How could one person, one slip of girl, prove so aggravating? It was as if she had been created for the express purpose of infuriating him. Worse still, he hadn't the slightest idea why he was still embroiled in this exchange. He _should_ just walk away, leaving her to rant and rage to deaf walls, yet some inexplicable thing kept him. Despite driving Erik to the brink of sanity, there was a strange, perverse thrill in arguing with one whom could match him in wit and temper.

 _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,_ he _was_ going daft! And Christine was driving the wildly careening carriage towards the cliff face...

"No, it escapes the feeble cognizance endemic to you and _you_ alone, stupid, bothersome child that you are."

"Interest in my own damn safety in the aftermath of a bloody volcanic eruption makes me a stupid and bothersome child?! At least _I_ have the rationality to look past my arrogance, it's a blessing one of us does. You might do well to listen to me."

"I might, were there a 'we', however seeing as _yo_ _u_ shall remain here..."

Cold sweat erupted on her palms, her voice wavering in its conviction. It was far from his anticipated retort. "Stay behind ... _why?_ " He was leaving her alone? Here? _In this wretched, gloomy place?_

" _Because_ I have instructed thusly!" Erik thundered, the flinty note of assertion in his voice designed to quieten all argument. It didn't work.

Christine loosed a mocking laugh to rival his momentarily forgetting her shock. "Because you said so, _t_ _hat_ is your answer? My father stopped using that logic when I was but six." she jeered, resolutely planting her knuckles against her hips and ignoring the sharp ache that tore through her injured hand.

"It's been a good while then," he hissed in black delight, " _Perhaps_ a reminder is required. You will no longer be confused once I put you over my knee, young Daaé. This I can promise."

"Are you threatening me?"

His expression changed again, more sneer than smile. "Not with cruelty, but clarification, as every disobedient child necessitates at one point or another."

"Lay so much as a digit on me and I _will_ remove it from your person." The words she spoke were not her own, to hear such violence fall from her lips both rattled and chilled. It appeared elements of her companion's charming persona had transferred unto her; a disturbing incidence by all accounts but she refused to let him see her unease.

For the barest interval Erik also looked taken aback before his usual conceit resurfaced. "Now I am _almost_ tempted..." His eyes were alight with the prospect of a challenge. No, _alight_ was a misnomer, they practically glowed with it. "Do you believe yourself quick enough?"

Not fury nor the bravado it inspired could dampen her trepidation but she'd be damned if she admitted her mistake. Erik thrived on fear and chaos and he'd get _no_ such pleasure from her! Calmly, she drew the knife sheathed at her thigh, the very same he had gifted her, brandishing it soberly, his remark about her using it against him fresh in her mind. Maybe he was possessed of a knack for predictions or _maybe_ it was that he knew himself all too well.

"You are welcome to find out for yourself." she warned unflinchingly, playing into his precarious game.

An amused smirk graced his lips as he stepped forward, towards the knife. This was _not_ the intimidation she had expected, _this_ was pure and simple psychosis. Stone-colored eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Are you asking for my touch, little princess?"

Christine's ears burned with blistering acuteness at the way in which her words had been flipped, the double entendre intentional as evinced by the cocky flare of his entire demeanor; he seemed to grow taller, more daunting. She flushed harder but did not shrink.

" _Never._ I could scarcely think of a thing that would sicken me more." Christine spat emphatically, pushing from mind the strange tingling sensation kindled by his insolence. Later, when alone— _definitely alone_ —she resolved to revisit it, baffling and revolting as it was.

 _...to discover and stamp out its root cause_ , or so she convinced herself.

" _Good_ ," Mischief sparkled in his gaze, his tone honeyed poison, saccharine and deadly, "because you've piqued my interest..."

It all happened rapidly. Christine slashed with the blade at the exact instant Erik lunged. There was no howl of pain, only the clattering of metal hitting the ground as her clumsy swipe was effortlessly parried followed by the feeling of something solid pinning her in place. When she regained sense enough to realize that _something_ was him, she struggled to free herself from his grasp: a valiant yet vain endeavor.

"Until later, young Daaé." he breathed, drawing a single finger down her face in boldface mockery of her threat before releasing her.

By the time Christine spun around on wobbling knees she was completely alone in the cave. He had vanished into thin air as was his wont.

Gone and _good riddance!_

She threw herself to the ground, shouting her frustration until her voice broke and no more sound came, her hand smarting with stinging pulses of pain. How dare he?! What right had he to touch her, to tease her? Oh, if he were still here, she would gift him with a long overdue slap ... _or_ , perhaps, a punch; give him back some of his own. Christine grinned blithely at the idea. It wasn't the first time she had fantasized about striking him. She knew it to be petty but Erik stirred her emotions like no other!

The blame was his alone, certainly not hers. It was not she who preyed on the malleable, trusting minds of innocents! He knew exactly what he was doing and revelled in it; he was a manipulator of the highest degree and a blackguard to boot. She loosed another howl of grievance that ended in a sullen huff.

Merciful Lord, _if_ she had to spend another second with that pompous bastard she'd yank her hair out by the fistful! Was there any other soul half as unbearable as he? She could think of none. How she disliked that man! Affable, compassionate, one moment and a truculent, tyrannical cad the next. More than anything Christine abhorred this changeability and by extension him; she could never quite ken _how_ to act in his presence because of his fickle moods. Too often she had humiliated herself by appearing obtuse. It was a further blow to her pride that Erik always noted her deficiency, making her feel like a child in need of a dunce cap, _and_ when she merely wanted to impress him; the why of which another mystery.

Unadulterated lunacy is what it was, mania that she should seek the approval of such an individual, but her sentiments in his presence were as enigmatic as the man who evoked them. She was frightened in all honesty, frightened at her uncharacteristic behavior, for she wasn't the sort to titter and exhibit herself in the company of gentlemen as did most girls her age and was never struck with the urge to do so.

Until _now_ , until _him_.

It was plainly not owing to attraction of any kind, Christine was positive on that front: she was absolutely and indisputably _not_ attracted to Erik! He was crude, domineering, imperious, disagreeable, and obscene, and make no mention of the mask. _Not_ her archetypal mate in the least! She desired a man who was eloquent, intelligent, well-read, possessed of a sharp wit, unafraid of debate; a spirited but gentle man, devoted to her yet independent; a worldly man who traversed the globe and spoke a language for nearly every land he had visited; a man whose thirst for adventure was not satiated by books alone, who didn't balk at mud or physical exertion; a musical man, whose heart beat in time to the rhythms in his head...

 _A mate for her soul_ in fewer words; she wouldn't be content with less. Christine was no idiot, she knew the likelihood of finding such a companion preposterous: a gullible child's fantasy. Still, she couldn't help herself. Perhaps, then, she was destined to remain a spinster forever: too radical to entice and too discerning to settle. Oh well, she was sure papa wouldn't mind.

In her dreams her heart's desire was tall with thick, dark hair (like papa's had been in youth) and genial, equable blue eyes - _or were they grey?_ \- that never flared or blustered or burned, but looked upon her with the utmost love and fidelity; his lips were full and pink, nearly always drawn in a smile _\- not a scowl or smirk_ \- and perfectly suited to kissing her; his laugh was deep and melodious, as rich as a brass instrument - _without hidden notes of sarcasm or mockery_ \- and came often; his manner was that of a consummate gentleman, treating her with respect - _no trace of contempt, impoliteness, or cruelty_ \- and chivalry, he would kiss her hand and offer his arm and make love to her sweetly, _reverently_ , regarding her as a divine creature, conscientious of her pleasure; her true love valued her - _never belittling, bullying, or calling her stupid_ \- and didn't seek to stifle or restrict her as a woman. This fated partner was certainly _not_ Erik but in fact his complete opposite in every aspect. Yet no matter how many times she employed this rationale, the bizarre emotional turmoil he elicited did not lessen.

Nor did it become any more explicit.

...if anything it increased.

But Erik was definitely not this man! She had known it deep in her heart from their first exchange, regarded it as an absolute truth. So maybe it was just her imagination or current disarray that lessened the surety Christine had once held so absolute.

Either way she would dwell on it no longer and vowed to put _him_ from mind.

Half an hour passed (or so she assumed) and she threw rocks into the water to distract from these shattering and distasteful ... _whatever_ they were. Then an hour was gone and with it the loose stones. Pity. They were good for skipping but might have proven exceptional for shying at his head. _Hah,_ she told herself, voice hoarse, _you'll keep away if you know what's good for you!_ One hour became two, which turned to three with no sign of Erik. And with each subsequent chunk of time that marched by thereafter so too did her choler melt and elation transitioned to something reminiscent of concern.

Not that she was concerned on his behalf! No, she was worried for her own sake. If he abandoned her, how would she find the way forward or back? Why would she worry for a vile scoundrel the likes of Erik Grey? Clearly he could care for himself and had no qualms about doing that and only that.

Hour three bled into four and Christine sat upon a rock with her arms crossed just _thinking_ and trying desperately to keep _him_ removed from her musings. She considered singing to pass the time but her throat was far too raw; _a_ _nother_ splendid outcome of communication with Erik. So she sat idle and _thought:_ thought of home, of papa, of Raoul, of sights seen, of the future, of last night's dream... _such a wonderful dream it had been._ Even the ground seemed to growl its approval.

The rumbling persisted, its vibrations providing a soothing ambiance for a tired mind, before intensifying in both volume and energy exposing its true nature. An earthquake. Everything within the cave—walls, floor, water, ceiling, boulders, _her_ —shaken so vigorously it seemed to resonate, composing a song of terror and looming peril. She did her best to remain seated, fearful that the surrounding rock might crumble and collapse: her prison and now (potentially) her tomb. There was naught to be done but pray, but even that simplistic task was made impossible by the relentless oscillation, her brain feeling as though it might be jounced to mush, the ringing in her ears oppressive and consuming. How she wished it would stop!

 _It did._

All fell quiet and still.

Christine waited, teeth sore from chattering, for several seconds till she was positive the worst was indeed over. Cautiously she unfurled herself from a crouch, grateful the dreadful quaking no longer assaulted her. _Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight..._ she continued to count, _forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two..._ Per usual things could and did worsen. She reached one minute and twenty-two seconds before a thunderous roar rent the air, so loud it defied description. She covered her ears with her hands and curled into a ball just to escape the sound.

 _Another eruption_ , her frazzled, pitiful brain registered. She cried _and_ rocked _and_ whispered fevered entreaties to the Lord above, certain she'd go deaf or die in this place, hoping she might be spared. It was all she could do. Erik seemed to think the cave would provide refuge, surely he knew of such things having survived in the wilderness. Yet he wasn't here to offer confirmation or reassurance.

 _Oh God,_ he was out _there_!

Out there in the midst of the end of times. Her stomach gave a hard, painful lurch, twisting itself sharply when she recalled the manner of their parting and the things she had wished upon him thereafter.

 _If anything happened to him..._

 _Oh God!_

Images of his body lying broken and charred, of him buried beneath tons of ash and mud, of him choking on the poisonous clouds of gas and collapsing never to rise again played endlessly within her mind, the gruesome visions so real that they numbed her to the booming eruption. Christine balled up tighter, entire body shaking with great, heaving sobs, indifferent to all but the acidic guilt searing her insides.

Lord, she was a _horrid_ person! A wretched, spoiled, prideful ingrate.

And now he was gone, possibly _forever_. Her bawling robbed her of breath, smothering her until she vomited a mixture of water, bile, and thick ropes of saliva onto the cave floor. After her poor, empty stomach had turned itself inside-out, its fruitless retching cracking her ribs, Christine collapsed, barely possessed of strength enough to curl up. The sound of her weeping persisted long after the mountain had gone silent but she noticed nothing within her cocoon of regret and misery, not even footsteps.

"What the devil is the matter with you?"

It _couldn't_ be.

Dare she believe? Surely the voice was but a figment of a distraught mind. Even so, she hazarded the smallest peek through bleary, swollen eyes, scrabbling at the thinnest thread of faith.

There he was.

Tousled, sooty, and a tad worse for wear but otherwise very much real.

Shakily, dazed as if dreaming she rose to her feet and launched at him, clamping her arms about his torso, burying her face in his chest, every sliver of tact forgotten, propriety overshadowed by the vivacious current of relief flowing through her.

 _Alive!_ Oh, thank the sweet, gracious Lord!

And for a transient moment she knew nothing outside of her own euphoria and the thump of his heart.

Until his body went rigid in her embrace and she was brought crashing back to her senses. Christine pushed away instantly, scrabbling backwards as if physical distance might erase her rashness. She couldn't meet his gaze.

What had come over her, literally flinging herself at him like gin-soaked hussy? He was clearly appalled, evident from the way he stiffened, his every muscle frozen... she might as well have been holding a marble pillar or tree trunk. What a stupid little fool she was! Always leaping before looking, always making problems for herself, _always_ letting emotions rule the day.

" _I... I'm just ..._ " She sucked a breath through her teeth, "I heard the eruption and..."

He grasped at his hair awkwardly, "A small affair like the one last night."

" _But..._ _you_ are ..."

"Unharmed." She gave a strained nod, choking back tears. "Sorry to say that you won't be rid of me after all, young Daaé." he finished with a smirk.

 _Humor?_ He was joking? Christine couldn't say whether she wanted more to slap him or sing.

"Now, come, we cannot afford to waste the entire day."

 **o o o**

The hike was half the usual distance owing to their extremely late start, not that Christine could offer much complaint over what was a blessing for her cramped muscles. Camp was made shortly after the sun fell, another boon as she expected (and not unreasonably) Erik to make up for time lost by forging on into the night.

After all was set up, bandages were changed, supper had been eaten, and a small fire danced merrily within its earthen pit, it was time for bed. The cloudy day had become a hazy night, the temperature and breeze surprisingly pleasant. Each of them lingered a bit longer than usual to enjoy the mild weather, neither speaking. When he rose and stalked off, she decided to turn in.

"Christine, a word before you retire,"

This was it, he was going to chide her earlier wantonness. She swallowed thickly as she came to stand beside him, dreading his words like a child preparing for a hearty scolding. _Better to face the music with head held high_ , as papa said.

"Yes?" came her feeble reply.

"I didn't leave you behind out of spite or lack of faith but out of concern for your welfare, I hadn't any notion what might lie ahead and I _am_ charged with your care. Even so the manner by which I went about it was tactless and ill-bred. I am unaccustomed to company and my social graces have suffered, nevertheless an apology is in order. I acted out of turn and I am sorry for that. It occurs to me after today's events that we'd be better suited as allies rather than enemies." The apology was issued gruffly, as if appropriated from an unfamiliar tongue. And for all she knew it had been; atonement didn't seem a natural course for him. But he _tried_ and that counted for everything.

On one other occasion he had extended her an unspoken truce following her mention of his mask. However that had quickly turned to ash at her doing. This was the first spoken armistice between two souls ostensibly set on wounding each other with sharpened words at every turn and she was loath to let it escape her. Christine was tired of battle and peace brought a welcome, steadying breath of oxygen to weary lungs.

"I couldn't agree more."

A radiant smile blossomed across her features: her brightest since they had begun this adventure. It was stunning, magnetic in its intensity. Erik stared dumbfounded before he felt his lips tilt unconsciously into a grin, compelled by the energy she exuded. He hadn't expected her to concede so readily yet she had and with enthusiasm.

Interesting. Perhaps she wasn't as willful as he previously assumed. But here she was the very portrait of agreeableness.

If prompted, he might have even lauded her as attractive at that moment, when she was effusive and beaming and not spitting and shrieking like the wife of the Devil.

 _Yes_ , little Christine Daaé had a certain appeal on occasion, Erik was willing to admit that much.

She _did_ have a good heart - one wracked with foolish naïvete - but it _was_ in the right place. After all, she had fretted somewhat over his well-being— _him,_ the beastly tyrant marching her day and night—as evinced by that impromptu embrace. The recollection brought to light the true horror of his conduct. Even after discovering her secret he had made little effort to smooth his callous edges. Granted only a day had passed, but prior to now he hadn't made the consideration. Maybe he had been too abrasive, too quick to anger, too condescending, too brash. Guilt spread through his chest, leaking everywhere like spilled ink, why had it taken him so long to realize she was human, a lost girl cast into a cold world? He could at least accord her a modicum of respect, still even basic courtesy harbored potential danger.

Beautiful, fiery, kind, _and_ intelligent, it would behoove of him to tread carefully but he was never one for caution. Perhaps her charms might sway a lesser man but they would not tempt him. Erik would simply not allow it, _or so he believed._ Few if any tasks were out of his grasp, fewer still immune to his talents, surely Christine's allure wouldn't affect him if he willed it so.

Thus he saw no reason maintain the wall of crude aloofness between them. They had moved past that - not into friendship by any means - but they were no longer strangers and had grown acclimatized to one another. What harm was there in treating the girl like a sentient being? Besides, he could stand to be a shade more tolerant. That was to say, things were almost endurable when they were getting on.

Yet as she touched his forearm in gentle thanks and smiled once more Erik couldn't help but feel he was making a fatal lapse in judgment despite the lightness in his heart.

* * *

 **A/N: So, a lot of introspection in this chapter but necessary to really get into everybody's head and show the changing dynamic. This story is going to be a little different in that it's Christine who first feels the pangs of love, so to speak; Erik is going to be a bit of a tougher sell on the whole whirlwind romance deal. The feelings _are_ starting but (at least in Christine's case) they have sort of been there hiding away the entire time. Nadir accurately predicted her fascination with Erik growing into something more a few chapters back. **

**While this isn't going to be a star-crossed lovers, 'love at first sight' type of story, keep in mind they're on a deadline so everything _is_ occurring over a period of days rather than weeks or months. I'm just trying to make it not seem that way lol. Hopefully I nail it with the subtlety, please tell me if I don't. And of course, even when it _does_ happen it will be far from 'smooth sailing', so that's plenty of future angst and sexual tension to look forward to. ;)**

 **Thanks for the reviews and continued support!**


	13. Une Semaine

**You know those instances when you are on the verge of completing something but you keep getting pulled away and/or distracted by friends and family?**

 **That's me with this chapter. But I** _ **FINALLY**_ **broke free of diversions and am able to post.** _ **Hallelujah!**_

 **Thanks to the-laughingstock and Not A Ghost3 for joining in on the adventure and, as always, thanks to everybody who has reviewed, favorited, and is liking the story. I love hearing feedback. :)**

 **A/N: Just a fair word of warning, things are about get intense and quickly. As I said in the previous chapter, I am trying** _ **not**_ **to make it a cheesy 'love at first sight' deal for either character,** _ **but**_ **everything** _ **is**_ **happening in a short span of time; so do keep that in mind. This is why the introspection from both Erik and Christine is so crucial in this (and the coming) chapter(s), so we'll put together the hints long before either of them do. And, yes, they** _ **will**_ **acknowledge their attraction within the next two chapters and something** _ **will**_ **happen within the next four. I won't give any details, though, you'll just have to wait and see. ;)**

 **Also, Child of Dreams, there's no tsunami coming (sorry!) because I like to keep things realistic and their location made it highly improbable. Secondly, the dynamics were fairly impossible - tsunamis destroy everything in their path, including large ships at port, so even if they managed to survive, they likely wouldn't be able to get off the island. Sorry, but it's all just too fantastical for me. However, don't despair because I** _ **did**_ **come up with what I hope is a compromise (and which you'll see sometime soon).**

* * *

 **4 May - Day 7**

Dawn was barely upon them when Christine awoke, its beams of light frail yet strong enough to prise open sleepy eyelids like oyster shells. Normally it wouldn't have roused her but as she lay there waiting for sleep to recede completely she wondered if the mind and body could forget the look and feel of sunlight.

It seemed preposterous and _yet_...

Were there not fish and salamanders that had evolved without eyes, their skin transparent after living in caves for millennia? Perhaps dwelling underground for even a short time _had_ altered her - at least temporarily. She shuddered, making a note to never again venture beneath the earth.

A steaming mug of coffee was waiting when she emerged from the tent and she grabbed it with the ferocity of a beggar after a coin, inhaling its potent aroma and wallowing in the delightful smell, a silly little grin curving her lips. For a small span, she hung in this wonderful balance simply _enjoying_.

"I cannot say I've ever previously witnessed such a reaction to coffee."

And, _of course—_

What was anything lovely without Erik trampling it to dust and making her feel absurd? Such occurrences were certainly more reliable than coffee on this trip. A stinging retort perched readily upon her tongue but, recalling last night's agreement, she reluctantly bit it back. If he could be civil so too could she.

"I'm sorry, was I disturbing you?"

Well, _mostly..._

"No, merely an observation, young Daaé." He set down the knife he had been honing and dusted off his hands. "I took the liberty of preparing it when I heard you stirring, I hope it hasn't grown cold."

She looked down at the mug contents, indeed finding them to be diluted by cream and took a timid sip. Perfection! _Exactly_ how she would have made it. A frown creased her delicate forehead, how had he known? Evidently bewilderment was mistaken for displeasure as Erik apologized, offering to toss it out and pour another.

"No, it's delicious! _Just..._ how did you—"

"I watched you frequently enough to memorize ratios, that is all."

" _Oh._ "

 _Say something!_ her brain urged. She tacked on an inelegant gramercy, sipping the ambrosial liquid once more.

He gave a nod of acknowledgement and continued sharpening his blade, leaving Christine to mull and break her fast.

It was difficult to believe a week had passed since her entire world was upended. If pressed, she might have guessed several had gone by rather than just the one. After all, it felt as if that were true, it felt as if she had been stuck with him for a small eternity. While they had reached an accord the night before it was unreasonable to expect things between them would immediately change. She didn't lament this, not precisely, but she _did_ wish for companionship, someone to talk and laugh with, a friend. Erik, for all of his numerous gifts, was not a skilled conversationalist; something she had long-since identified was by choice rather than deficiency. He was eloquent to be sure... articulate, worldly, and well-read but for reasons entirely his own—ones she did or _could_ not understand—he preferred silence.

Most of his 'vocal' spells were the result of temper and so far as she had been able to tell, a quiet Erik was a content Erik. It was a shame, truly, for he was a natural storyteller, his words possessed of a captivating cadence undoubtedly owing to the musician inside. She had very nearly forgotten he was a musician; the night she heard him play seemed like a faraway dream but its memory was enchanting. _Could he sing as well?_ she pondered, _Did he play any other instruments?_

Surely someone of his skill wasn't limited to one. Papa was a great musician and while he shone at violin he could play any stringed instrument competently and Erik made _him_ look like a bumbling drunk with a fiddle. There was music in his every gesture, every movement; a melody in the way he drew the knife across the whetstone; a rhythm in the way he opened cans; the way he unconsciously drummed out time with his fingers when preoccupied... Christine hadn't realized she was staring until slate eyes snapped up to hers and she quickly looked away, choking on a sip of coffee.

"I have something for you."

"W-What ... is... _it_?" she asked on a stilted breath between coughs. At last her throat ceased its spasms and she wiped streaming eyes upon her sleeve, anticipating some wry quip about her misfortune - that's what old Erik would do - but none came. Instead he produced two large yellow fruits from thin air.

"Papayas." he stated candidly.

"I know what they are, they're in _Köhler's Medicinal Plants._ I've heard they grow here but I've yet to see any. Where did you find them?"

"A secret," His eyes flashed mysteriously and, scraping the seeds onto the ground, he offered her half. He inclined his piece towards her, "To a week of acquaintance."

Christine received it gladly, miming his toast sheepishly. When was the last time she enjoyed fruit? She couldn't recall. But as she took her first bite, she decided it didn't matter. This was unlike any fruit she had tasted: the flesh was incredibly soft and sweet with a hint of exotic flavor she couldn't place. _Delectable._ It was savored with the same reverence as the coffee.

"Have you had papaya before?" Erik inquired watching her enthusiastically devour the fruit. She shook her head, cheeks full, juice dripping off her chin, and he was hit with the inkling to laugh. The display was endearingly amusing, reminiscent of a child wolfing down a second slice of cake before their mother noticed. Part of him was glad to be responsible for providing her with such joy, the rest was amazed that a paltry fruit could generate this much excitement; it was another obvious testament to her innocence, a prospect he found both worrisome and enthralling. Christine was strong, _yes_ , possibly the most tenacious woman he'd met, but how familiar was she with the extent of the world's depravity? Not at all, of course, and he vowed to keep it that way. It would be a travesty to break a spirit as fine as hers; she was truly special.

God, when had he become such a damned sentimentalist? He was not one to give much credence to others— _especially_ silly, little girls—and simply ignored people, most—those wise few, anyway—returned the courtesy. Truth be told, he had been somewhat fond of the girl since the beginning, even prior to learning her secret; when she wasn't driving him mad, that was. She was possessed of a keen wit and surprising mettle; if she still feared him, she hid it well. He certainly expected her to be wary of him, braver men than she were, but she no longer flinched or shrunk in the shadow of his temper. Quite strange it was, and wholly uncharted territory for Erik, unnerving, but not completely unforeseen.

After all, he _was_ technically human—although, perhaps a shade more than he originally believed—and forming social bonds was normal. So it was not to say his budding regard for Christine had any deeper implications, it was the deference of an elder brother, assuredly _not_ romantic in the least. Yes, that was it.

Definitely _nothing_ more...

 **o o o**

Shortly after breakfast it was time for the day to start in earnest. They packed up camp and were on their way before the sun had made its full ascent into the sky. It showed all the promise of being a nice day, the breeze from last night still blew and—most critically of all—the mighty Peleé, following two consecutive eruptions, again appeared to be slumbering but for the constant black plume above its summit.

Few if any words were exchanged for the better part of the morning, to Christine's chagrin, for following his kindness she hoped the change in demeanor might encompass his loquaciousness (or lack thereof) as well. Despite wishing for dialogue she took it in stride, not wanting to irritate with her usual questions. But as it neared midday she couldn't keep herself from asking just one, one which had been weighing on her mind for a while.

Surely, _one_ would do no harm.

 _How much longer?_

A sigh; a hand drawn through messy, dark hair. "A week's time was my original calculation, which, as you can see was patently an incorrect estimation." He frowned, clearly dissatisfied. "That said, I had the foresight to pack extra provisions so you needn't worry about going hungry."

"Not that I'd allow such a thing to happen, young Daaé." Erik added quickly, "I am a ... _competent_ hunter at the very least, but it shan't come to that." Christine didn't miss the odd way the word was spoken, riddled with insinuation, and dismissed the impulse to investigate; she refused to ruin their newfound rapport.

"What about the steamer? Will it not depart without us if we fail to arrive on time?"

"We are being ferried aboard a fishing vessel to Road Town and from there we will book passage aboard whichever ship we can."

"Road Town..." she repeated softly, chewing her lip in thought, "That's not a town on any of the Windward or Leeward Islands."

"No."

She made a pensive little hum and Erik cocked his head at the sound. Evidently she was poring through memories of geography lessons; he knew such subjects weren't normally a part of a female education but neither was Greek or Latin and Christine was decidedly—and refreshingly—atypical in that respect. Now he held his breath, curious if she could figure it out.

"It's in the Virgin Islands, right?" came her hopeful intonation.

Stemming the resultant smile proved impossible and he was relieved his back was to her. Although he had admitted his fondness to himself, Erik was not yet ready to make it a known fact, leery of appearing weak. Still, he believed in giving due praise.

"Very astute. Do you know upon which island the harbor is located?"

"The Virgin Islands are comprised of four main islands: Virgin Gorda, Anegada, Jost Van Dyke, and Tortola." she recited by rote, "Tortola is the biggest, I believe, making it the logical choice for a large port, Road Town is therefore on Tortola?" The final part was phrased more as an expectant inquiry than an assertion.

Initially her query had annoyed him. Who was this pampered little chit to question him? But that soon evolved into beguilement and esteem. Christine was an intelligent, young girl with quite a lot to offer. Why had he only now begun to see? The answer was a simple one: _because he had never cared to look._

"Quite right. Well done you. Perhaps you should consider transferring your interests from botany to toponymy." he teased, relieved when his joke earned a tiny giggle.

"I'm afraid I prefer plants over landmasses; I'm usually abysmal with place names. I confess the sum of my knowledge comes from one of papa's close friends who hails from one of the Virgin Islands, though I can't remember which." She puckered flawless lips, clearing her throat gently, "Are we close to our destination?"

"Yes. We will reach Sainte-Anne within three days."

 _Three days._

In a bare three days she would be that much closer to home, _to papa_. Her sigh of contentment was rapidly smothered by anxiety when she ruminated over _what_ her aspiration entailed. To reach England would require a long journey by boat—the one to Martinique had taken nearly a fortnight—a voyage she was to undertake with _him._ Why hadn't she considered this previously? She bit her cheek nervously in face of this realization. Would she again don the guise of Christopher? If so, how was she to use the water closet or bath? While the ship here had offered private accommodations, most steamers had communal areas for such things. Did he have falsified papers and an elaborate background story in case questions arose? What relationship would he claim existed between them? Would they be sharing a cabin?

Before she could delve further into the subject, the time for lunch was upon them. The customary tinned fare was eaten amidst a few snippets of light chatter. It was not much but it served as a diversion, albeit a temporary one; she dreaded the meal's end and the troubling thoughts that were sure to come. But apparently she was not so ill-fated as previously believed, for at the moment they stood poised to resume something tumbled out of Erik's rucksack.

It was a tatty old novel, scuffed and scraped with crinkled, water-stained pages, the gilded text on its spine forming the barely legible title: _L'Homme qui rit_ ; golden ruins vaguely hinting at having once been letters were all that remained of the author's name. Christine seized it greedily as if it were a fist-sized diamond instead of a book, cradling it with the same veneration. She turned it over in hand, scrutinizing its every detail down to the last imperfection and running her fingers from leather-bound spine to grain cloth sides; its smell was of old paper and leather and ink and _him_.

Comprehension slowly dawned sparking an ache in her heart; it had been a week since she'd held a book, which, for a bookworm was akin to denial of oxygen. Erik studied her, his expression unreadable, but made no effort—physical _or_ verbal—to intervene. Maybe it was her intense interest that held his temper in check for he was the farthest from complacency as she could imagine; she'd sooner pilfer a dragon's gold than anything of his. More peculiar still, he waited patiently as she concluded her inspection.

" _The Man Who Laughs,_ " she whispered, returning it and receiving an affirmative nod as a receipt.

"You know it?" Erik tucked it away and strode off; she swiftly fell into step beside him.

"I know of Young's translation. As you've noted before, my French is not cohesive enough to read the original." He managed a small grin, though surprise gleamed in his eyes.

"You seem astonished."

He shrugged, "I did not think it the sort of novel to appeal to the sensibilities of the fairer sex."

"Why not? Is it the absence of weddings, gossip, and frocks?" Christine challenged, chafed by his presumptions.

"I'd speculate a happier denouement would better suit your fancy, one that ends well for the lovers."

"Because I'm a vapid young maid entranced by fairy-tales?!" she pressed, unable to conceal the thread of irritation in her tone any longer.

" _Because_ you have a gentle heart, one deeply affected by tragedy." Erik corrected. "A foolish, idealistic heart but gentle nonetheless."

"Regardless of what you _believe_ yourself to know I prefer tales of melancholia; I can hardly stand novels of sensibility and the so-called Byronic hero churns my stomach. In fact, this overabundance of romanticized drivel is why I prefer scholarly works to fiction."

" _Naturally,_ " The sarcasm was overt. "And here I thought the Byronic hero could induce swooning as effectively as vermin caught in a petticoat." She emitted a low snort, rolling her eyes.

"They are loathsome characters, in my opinion. Mr Rochester, Heathcliff, Lord Ruthven, Claude Frollo? Each one as much a selfish, scheming, lascivious, brutish blackguard as the other! They should be condemned by my sex, not lauded. A gentleman should be moral, honorable, and respectful of the woman he courts, _not_ a lying seducer with a wife in the attic."

" _Ah_ , so Mr Darcy then?"

" _Oh, hang Mr Darcy!_ And Devil take Rochester and Heathcliff for good measure!" Christine huffed.

Erik chuckled as she glared daggers at him. "I think, mayhap, you are too severe in your judgments, little princess."

"A boor such as yourself _would_ empathize with the likes of Rochester and Heathcliff." she retorted promptly.

Solemnity overtook his visible features, rolling in like rain clouds, and a pang of regret at her harshness unfurled within. "Are protagonists not dreamt up by authors to stir the reader, their traits, flaws, and motivations identifiable? It's not so difficult to understand as you proclaim. Have you ever been a victim of circumstance, cursed or constrained by something beyond your influence?" The answer was evident, both knew as much. Christine found sudden fascination in dirt, kicking at it with each step, discomfited by his weighted words. "Such is the tragedy of the Byronic hero. Heathcliff was treated abysmally, humiliated, denied the love of the woman he desired and for the sake of what, a cruel drunkard's amusement? And Rochester was the pawn of a grasping father's machinations, shackled in a sham marriage until death, and thusly unable to pursue love when it was placed before him."

"It's unfortunate, _that_ I'll concede, but it does not excuse their chosen paths. Heathcliff became a monster intent on vengeance upon all, _including_ the woman he claimed to love, and Rochester was a manipulator, remorseless over his attempt to trick Jane into relinquishing her virtue for a fraudulent marriage. How can you offer justification for these sins?"

"I do not seek to provide justification but rather _explanation._ "

" _Please_ , by all means, but I'm afraid I am already decided."

"The answer is as simple as love."

" _Love?_ " she scoffed.

His manner was deadpan, his countenance somber, "Have you ever been in love?"

" _God, no!_ Have you?"

"No." The pronouncement sounded somewhat embittered. "I do not know what it is to be _in_ love, but I am familiar with love itself, fully cognizant of its power and influence. It's a matchless force, every bit as formidable as a hurricane or avalanche and yet more so as it lives within each of us, impossible to shelter from. It can turn a meek little mouse into a lion; it can cajole the mildest man to become a murderer and likewise deliver a demon to salvation; it can lift the stains from the most tarnished soul and blacken the purest heart. Love bows for no mortal's whim, be they king or pauper, _all_ are created equal. Powerful, driven, fulfilling its own agenda without care for whom or what it may destroy, it inspires revenge, sacrifice, charity, and acts both heinous and great; a man can be made or broken before he is the wiser. One need only look to history, not fiction, for evidence of what love has wrought and ruined. In that vein it is beautiful and tremendous but also dangerous and uncontrollable." His piece said, Erik forged ahead without another word, abandoning her in stifling quietude to wonder at his cryptic speech. He had loved someone in the past, that much was indisputable, and from the scornful edge in his voice the end had not been a happy one. Who was this mystery person, what had become of them, and what role had they played in moulding him into the man before her?

Had he, fuelled by passion, committed the ultimate sin? Had love compelled him to seek brutal retribution or conceal a staggering truth?

Yes, something new could be gleaned about Erik from every interaction, deciphering it on the other hand...The implications caused her head to ache. Eventually she gave up the riddle and turned her attention elsewhere. At any rate, it did not concern her.

As papa once said of her ceaseless questioning: _Stultorum est se alienis immiscere negotiis._

 **o o o**

Hours later and apparently satisfied by their progress, he elected to make camp a bit earlier than usual, which, to her amazement was along the coast. After a week of nothing but mountains and jungle, the sea made for a refreshing change of scenery. By the time all was said and done an hour of twilight remained, a perfect opportunity for sketching. Today had perhaps been the most pleasant one thus far, respective injuries were nearly healed and dinner was a welcome change of fresh fish and crab.

Yet, as with _all_ things involving Erik, she quickly discovered good things seldom endured.

She didn't notice his presence until he was peering directly over her shoulder at the abysmal renderings of _Pitcarnia spicata_ upon the page. How long he had been watching was anyone's guess - she hadn't even seen his shadow! - and, had he not spoken Christine doubted she'd have ever known he was there.

"What in God's name do you call those?" he drawled, condescension palpable.

"Sketches."

" _Sketches._ " The word was reiterated slowly, this time swathe in skepticism.

"I'd expect a man of your knowledge to recognize art even in spite of his unsavory background." It was a gibe she couldn't hold back and one he deserved for sneaking and spying.

"Art I am quite familiar with, but _this..._ " Erik reached down, boldly turning the page, an action for which Christine seriously contemplated slapping his hand. " _This_ cannot remotely be qualified as anything but filler for the dustbin or water closet." His crudeness lent her cheeks a violent flush.

"Have you _nothing_ better to do than skulk about and heckle me?!"

"Heckle?" He sneered, "Tell me, did I misspeak? Were you under the impression that your drawings are the like of Leonardo or Rembrandt? Surely even _you_ cannot be _that_ incognizant, little princess."

 _That_ did it.

Christine slammed the portfolio shut with a vicious snap and, stuffing it under her arm, fled to the tent. Scalding tears welled in her eyes, she knew not why nor did she care to dwell, all she wanted—needed—was to escape from him. It wasn't as though her lack of artistic talent was a secret. She hadn't cried when papa had said something similar, on the contrary she had jested with him at her own expense, using it as leverage to come here. And, when Raoul joked that a baboon could do better, she had laughed.

So why was this information upsetting coming from Erik? It shouldn't be. She was _well-aware_ it shouldn't be!

But for whatever reason it _was_ and so she sat, weeping quietly onto her knees, despising herself for such puerility but helpless to stop.

 **o o o**

Erik watched Christine flee with a roll of his eyes. He might have even apologized for his rudeness had she swallowed her damn cyclopean pride and behaved like a woman of twenty summers rather than a petulant, spoilt child of five. When she showed no sign of doing so, he sat down and began to clean his pistol, sharpening his knife a second time afterwards and scowling all the while.

Menial tasks failing to occupy his mind, it drifted to the previous day, _to her embrace._ What had gone so wrong— _or so right_ —to make her do such a thing?

Determinedly he tried to recall...

He had been making his last of the three trips required to pack and move their supplies and when he neared the cave mouth her disconsolate wailing had greeted him. So many terrible fates and any number could have befallen her! Believing the worst, Erik rushed in blindly, every horrible scenario in his head: maybe her legs or arms had been pinned or broken; maybe she was being crushed under fallen debris; perhaps a sharp fragment of stone had damaged something vital leaving her to slowly bleed... It was a terrifying noise, provoking him to immediate action; he crashed into the cavern in wild abandon, soaking his now-dry clothes in his urgency. What he found he hadn't been prepared for, not in the slightest _,_ Christine lay curled up in the middle of the floor, sobbing as if everything she loved had been stolen away. A cursory scan revealed no obvious wounds nor immediate hazards; and, though relieved, he couldn't restrain the choleric wave that arose at the sight and was on the verge of scolding her needless racket when she did the _unthinkable..._

Hundreds of times he had since revisited that moment but reason continued to elude him. He was prideful, _yes_ , but not even Erik was so arrogantly delusional to presume her tears had been shed on his account, that she had feared for him and relief had driven her impulse. _Perhaps_ the hug _was_ borne from alleviation over his well-being and motivated by sheer dependency. After all, Christine was completely reliant upon him, where would she be without? The only other explanation—and the more rational of the two—was that the commotion had terrified the wretched thing and she, craving comfort, had cleaved to him aimlessly. That _had_ to be it; the Law of Parsimony supported the simplest result, did it not? However not even conspicuousness seemed accurate in this case.

And as night fell and the stars jockeyed for attention he still wasn't any closer to solving the quandary.

Drained and in an ill humor, Erik switched his focus to navigational pursuits. Within a few minutes he was so thoroughly engrossed in his task that he failed to perceive he was no longer the sole occupant of the darkness.

"What are you doing?"

"Determining our latitude."

Christine immediately felt absurd for asking; he was there, sextant in hand, gazing into the cosmos, what _else_ would he be doing? Nevertheless, it was not the typically anticipated cold dismissal and, bolstered, she pursued the conversation. "There are so many stars. I think I've seen all of five my entire life and for all I know, it could have been the same one on all five occasions."

Her joke won her no chuckle, not even the slightest twitch of lip. "Aren't sextants for maritime navigation?"

"Not if one has a handful of competence. Would you care to try?" Christine accepted the instrument, taking advantage of his gruff attempt at politeness; it was heavy and cold to the touch. She hadn't a clue how to use it but ego prompted her to make a noble show of looking through the telescope and pointing it at the sky.

"Is this correct?"

"Not in the slightest." A tinge of irascibility colored the words and she balked at his nerve, growing angry herself.

"Funny, _that_ , and with all the thorough instruction I received prior."

Though she couldn't see it, she could envisage his expression, twisted and taut, irritation etched into every muscle, eyes positively searing; it gave her a quick infusion of joy. Following the comments over her illustrations, she was back to the petty amusement of bothering Erik. He certainly warranted as much, truce be damned!

When he did respond his tone was clipped. "Would you like me to show you?"

"Well, _if_ you are offering..." He ignored her acerbity.

"Have you sighted the horizon?"

"I thought it might prove more productive to instead stare at the ground." Christine actually heard his scowl, were it possible, and it brought a frisson of delight to her heart.

"First ensure the index angle is set to zero. As I've already corrected for index error you need only concern yourself with fixating upon a celestial point; Polaris is the preferred selection for nighttime reckoning."

Find the Pole Star, that's all she needed to do. An easy enough prospect.

...in theory _alone,_ she quickly realized. Her eyes scanned the seemingly endless carpet of stars covering the entire sky, their number infinite. Everywhere there were tiny, sparkling pinpoints of light. They varied in size, brightness, and color but there was no shining beacon announcing itself, no one so remarkable that it beggared to be chosen. How then was she to make a selection, when tens of thousands seemed they would do just as well as their neighbors? Silently she prayed for guidance: an odd flicker, a streaking comet pointing the way ... anything. Admitting incompetence had always been an ordeal for Christine, appearing stupid among her worst fears, but in his presence the sensation was magnified tenfold.

"Locate Ursa Minor and from there Polaris."

 _Ursa Minor, the Lesser Bear._

Years of Latin lent a fluid translation. Unfortunately she was no closer to identifying that than Polaris - not that she'd ever admit that to him. So she lowered the sextant and looked for cluster of stars resembling a bear or any part thereof but was met with failure; to her it was no different than before, millions of orbs shining in unison, none forming distinctive shapes.

How had the ancient Greeks seen patterns in this chaos?

"There's nothing that looks like a bear."

"It's just _there_ ," His shirtsleeve brushed her shoulder as he pointed; she flinched ever so lightly. "Sometimes it is difficult to espy, it is helpful to find Ursa Major beforehand."

"Should you not simply have told me that?!" Christine interposed in exasperation.

"Would you have found it directly if I had?" Erik countered. The grinding of her teeth was response enough; he smirked at her resentment as he always did, infuriating man.

"Only the seven brightest stars of Ursa Major are of any consequence to a navigator, when connected they resemble a plough; they are, in order: Benetnasch, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phad, Merak, and Dubhe. Comprising the edge of the Plough are two stars, Dubhe and Merak, dubbed the Pointers because they 'point' to the Pole Star, move in a direct line from them and you'll see Polaris."

Trailing with her finger she located it with a squeal of victory, airy bubbles of excitement floating upwards in her chest. The sight spurred a recollection of her eighth year when papa had shown her a book of constellations; she remembered the pretty illustrations, the lines connecting each star forming skeletons upon which the drawings rested. Lost in reminiscence she was surprised by his chuckle, his voice so close it tickled her ear.

" _Good._ "

At once she was back in the present, where Erik stood close, her heart beating an erratic tattoo at this proximity; a phenomenon she was positive had naught to do with Erik and everything to do with his being male.

"Now I sight Polaris through the telescope?"

"Not quite." Erik sighed, mussing his hair. "May I?" he entreated.

"Please."

Had she known what he meant, she might have been less swift in her agreement.

An exhale ruffled her hair, his hands rising tentatively to envelop hers; large, elegant, and so very masculine, their warmth permeated to the bone, sending a heated tingle racing up her arms. The contact froze at her tiny squeak of alarm but he didn't pull away.

"Your hand." he said grimly, "I was foolish to have forgotten. Did I hurt you?" This softness of tone was unexpected, another fascinating peek at the tender soul beneath; Christine had become somewhat enamored of these brief glimpses, cataloguing them with the same gusto reserved for a particularly interesting species of flower.

Hurt? _Not exactly_ , but what else described the way her skin prickled and burned?

"N-No. It's fine."

"You must inform me if it feels otherwise." She nodded, biting her lip, her flesh still aflame. Christine was scarcely able to concentrate as he showed her how to align Polaris with its reflected twin, bringing the two into coincidence. With careful surety he instructed, guiding her fingers, halting when the two images correlated.

"Now we will bring Polaris flush with the horizon. I need you for my eyes, tell me when it rests upon the horizon as if floating on water." She gave a meek gesture of assent unsure if she still retained the power of speech. Gingerly he coaxed the index arm, and with it her hand, along the limb's arc until she ordered him to pause.

"STOP! _Or..._ what do I say?"

"You will say, ' _mark_ ' when the time comes, but we are not yet finished."

 _Not yet finished?_ How long did he expect her to linger in this place of searing touches simultaneously innocent and indecent. Erik then led her in softly swaying the instrument to and fro, turning the micrometer screw with her fingers until the bottom of the star just grazed the horizon.

"Mark!" she called jovially as he noted the exact time. Following his example she called out the angle unprompted and won herself accolades.

"Excellent, young Daaé, we shall make a navigator of you yet."

Beaming and drunk off praise, Christine whirled round in triumph, forgetting herself and how close they were until facing him. Barely a foot of space separated them; her breath hitched at the realization. Stunned sable eyes trailed up to awkwardly meet Erik's, the shock in his muted but evident. A lull yawned between them, tense and uncomfortable, an aeon of brown fastened upon blue. Then suddenly modesty compelled her to turn away and she obeyed, blushing with such fervency her face throbbed.

He withdrew his hands hastily, restless, long fingers flexing at his sides for want of a chore.

" _I—_ I suppose I should retire." She softly cleared the knot from her throat, averting her gaze, "Are you...?"

"No. I've still calculations to make."

" _Oh_ , I see." Was that dismay in her voice? No, it couldn't be. "Good-night, then."

"Good-night, Christine." he replied, unable to account for the _why_ behind his informal address.

She was curled upon her side fast asleep when he entered the tent an hour later. Much the same as the very first night he was staggered by how closely she resembled an angel. Yes, she was a consummate specimen of womanhood when not nagging and battling him, which, was a rarity. Even so, today _had_ been markedly agreeable; it appeared the overture for peace was an effective one. He could certainly grow accustomed to a more amiable Christine who didn't scratch, bite, harp, or question his every decision!

Yes, one of his better decisions to be _sure_.

 _—or was it?_

That night brought him back to that forbidden embrace. There was _nothing_ in it, or so he convinced himself, nothing outside of the solace of physical contact; he couldn't recall the last time he had taken pleasure in touch, only that it had been far too long. It wasn't lust, not manifestly so, yet neither was it entirely appropriate. Innocent attraction, maybe? Repressed infatuation? Familiar fondness?

No name made it any better.

The dream was unwelcome but thankfully harmless. Just the memory of warmth, of arms encircling his torso and hair tickling his chin. Sweet, juvenile, chaste... the brand of affection children sought from their mothers. He had no reason to believe tonight any different, if he had he might never have closed his eyes.

Unsurprisingly he returned to that moment, his most contented one in - _God,_ he couldn't say - years? Christine's held him snug, pliant body flush against his; her hair smelled of wood-smoke and earth. Rather than tensing as he had initially, he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation, though he never moved to reciprocate, his arms stuck to his sides by invisible pins. Still, his relaxation was perceived, it must have been, for she was more reluctant to pull away.

Oh-so-briefly Erik contemplated wending his own arms about her waist if only to prolong the moment. Instead he sighed and let her release him. It was better this way. He doubted she'd welcome it anyhow. Touching was one thing, being touched by a murderous monster with hands caked thick in blood was another...

It wasn't until the next night that he grew concerned.

—no, it was not until the next night that he contemplated swearing off sleep entirely.

Slowly—and in earnest—Erik was coming to regret his decision to open the rusted, overgrown gates shielding his humanity and barely two nights had passed. True, the days were improved but were they worth this torture? Again he was assailed by a premonition of catastrophe, a burning effigy of his own demise, but at this stage it was far too late to undo events which had already been set into motion.

* * *

 **A/N: So I actually had to learn to use a sextant for this chapter and there's a** _ **lot lot lot**_ **of math. It's simple yet complex (because of all the errors and whatnot), especially navigating at night,** _ **but**_ **alas daytime just doesn't lend that same sexual tension as does darkness.**

 ***Latin equivalent of the English proverb: Give neither salt nor counsel til you're asked for it. Basically, keep your opinions to yourself.**


	14. He was Horror

**A/N: If I could turn your attention to the story's rating, it _is_ an M and the beginning of this chapter deserves it. I tried to make it vague and tasteful and it's in no way gratuitous but I thought due warning was merited. However, it does tie into the plot and the ever-evolving dynamic between our lovely characters so if you do skip, there might be a touch of confusion later on.  
**

 **This is a dense chapter wherein a _lot_ goes down, including the progression of feelings, a revelation about Erik's identity, _and_ a very integral scene. I kicked around whether or not to write it in this early but ultimately decided it fit rather cohesively with the general mood.  
**

 **Many thanks for the reviews! As for Child of Dreams, you'll find out soon enough what cataclysm I've selected to befall our intrepid duo. No spoilers, sorry! ;)**

* * *

 **5 May - Day 8**

The dream was surreal, bright and pristine unlike the nightmares that usually dogged him. He sat on a grassy slope, a canopy of stars overhead so like the others he had camped beneath, not an ill wind in sight, no sounds beyond the crackling of a campfire and din of insects. In retrospect he should have been suspicious - perfect as it was _-_ but instead he laid back and let the damp blades tickle his neck. When had he last enjoyed the feel of grass? Within his head he charted the constellations, content with the uncharacteristic serenity.

He should have known better; he should not have fallen into the trap.

But he _hadn't_ and he _did_ _._

Of all people Erik should have known how often curses were disguised as blessings...

 ** _It's truly sublime, seeing such beauty before you, is it not?_** If not for its distinct femininity, he might have believed the voice lived within his head.

Erik sat up, irritated that she had caught him pining over the cosmos like some feckless poet. _I suppose..._ His reply tapered off unfinished when he _saw_ ; Christine grinned down at him in a such a way she knew would vex, obscuring a chunk of sky, the thin chemise she wore stirred by the soft breeze, starlight shining through the diaphanous material.

 _A goddess._

Until that very instant the extent of her comeliness had been overlooked. Her face was pleasing - that much he already knew - and her figure, slim and delicate, beneath the ill-fitting menswear, hinted at being equally so but just how much he could never have imagined. Adorned in bagging attire, hair tied back, chest bound, and hat upon her head it was easy to ignore her womanly allure. Occasionally he would catch glimpses of coffee-colored doe eyes, of full, rose colored lips and a complexion of the purest cream and startle with the recollection that it was Christine _not_ Christopher who trailed behind him.

There was no further demurral: she was perfection and in the shadow of profound revelation Erik gave no pause to wonder at her change in attire.

Why or how mattered not, only that she was scantily clad and so very close and he was just a man, a man who was starving and drowning at the same time, a hopeless man. Could she sense her peril, feel the danger she shyly courted?

Resigning himself to an eternity of damnation, he made no effort to escape as she came to sit beside him, her thigh abutting his. He was overcome with an urge to touch her, to discover if her skin was as soft as it looked. If he was to be doomed he might as well savor it. What was an infinite span of hell to the electric thrill of pleasure?

 _Transcendent._ he echoed, his voice deep and melodic, brazen fingers ghosting across her silken cheek.

 ** _The stars?_** came the hushed query; she had begun to tremble. His skin prickled with the realization heat creeping up the nape of his neck. Somewhere deep in his subconscious a voice shouted a warning, begged him to wake up. He didn't heed it. Why would he? _This_ \- whatever it might be - was far more appealing.

 _Your beauty. All else is dull and dim in comparison, even the brightest star and whitest diamond._

Blush became her oh-so-well, the thrum of desire pulsated collectively with the blood flushing her cheeks. God, he could _feel_ it.

The queer boldness possessed him once more; he was out of body and—assuredly—out of mind. Yet as his lips descended upon hers, swallowing their mutual gasp of surprise, Erik found he could not object. Gentle at first until coaxed into something of hunger by her coy response, his kiss was initially returned with virginal bashfulness but she quickly gained confidence, eroding his composure with her _every_ caress, _every_ brush of lip. Tentative, he slipped his tongue into her mouth to better taste her and she eagerly met it, at last snapping his fraying tether of control. With a growl he pulled her onto his lap, their chests pressed together in perfect imitation of their lips as they each sought to crawl into the other, his fevered hands tracing every part of her body, committing it to memory, blatant arousal pressing shamelessly into her.

 _ **Let me touch you.** _

Her breathy request nearly stopped his heart.

A frown scored his brow so deeply he speculated it might remain forever etched there, his mouth agape with combined shock and stark want; he couldn't formulate a reply—either assent or refusal—his tumbling respiration all he could manage.

Erik's breathing stuttered as her hands wandered into his shirt, fingertips skimming his chest, and ceased completely when she traced the path of hair below his navel. Everything froze as she undid his breeches, her action confirmed by the immediate release of constricting material. The heat of her nearby hands was torturous _—_ to have her so close yet not touching him excruciating _—_ and he feared it might well kill him. Impatience demanded he take her hands and guide her but he didn't give in, curbing his wicked whims by some miraculous feat and waiting for her to take the initiative she so boldly requested.

And _dear, sweet God_ when she at last did...

 _Ah—fuck..._

His stomach hitched inward with such violence that he swore it shattered against his spine and his heart almost burst with the ferocity of pure longing. He must have jumped at the contact for she exhaled sharply against his mouth. Erik's groan at the dynamic feel of her hand mingled with her subsequent moan at the proof of just how much he yearned for _this,_ for _her._

Never had he wanted something more or with such surety.

He permitted a few scant seconds of her fumbling, sensual exploration before he could no longer endure. Soon she was pinned beneath him, all barriers between them gone, the millions of twinkling tapers above casting her nakedness in an ethereal light, and he shuddered with restlessness to be one with her.

But he dared not act on impulse more appropriate for a boy green in the art of love and eager to take a tumble.

First he would show her the paradise only to be found in the arms of a generous lover _—_ the only type she deserved _._ First he would worship every part of her body, make her beg and whimper and shake with desire.

She whispered his name when he at last joined them, tears slipping from her eyes; he kissed them away. Keeping himself still despite the hot, wet tightness enfolding him was a Herculean effort, but Erik browbeat his body into submission; he would play the role of considerate paramour _or else_. When he did gingerly resume her exclamations were of pleasure instead of pain, increasing in desperation and volume until she was screaming, screaming _his_ name. Christine was fast approaching salvation, hovering just at the gates; he could feel the building wave rising within her. _So close._ All she needed to do was...

 _Let go,_ he half-beseeched, half-ordered.

Christine surrendered at the exact moment his own constraint buckled, exploding within her.

 ** _Erik!_** Her final shout before his eyes flew open.

Erik blinked once, twice, four times forcing his vision to focus, finding himself back inside their shared tent drenched in sweat, chest heaving. _She_ sat near him, hand outstretched and poised over his shoulder, clearly alarmed by his sudden return to reality.

"A-Are you all right?"

 _Better than all right_ , he wanted to say before coming to his senses. It had all been a dream, an unattainable fantasy, every single bloody wonderful minute. Confusion and comprehension quickly yielded to indignation over the interruption, all of which caved in the face of shame.

"Why did you rouse me? Is it your goal to make every moment of my life _—_ waking _and_ sleeping _—_ miserable?" he barked harshly, too harshly, for he saw the shine of tears threatening in her eyes.

"O-Only you were having a tterrible nightmare, moaning and yelling. It f-frightened me, I thought something was wrong."

"Yelling?" _Christ_ , if she were to deduce the content of his dream...

"Y-Yes. M-Most of it was unintelligible b-but there _was..._ "

" _What?!_ What was there?! Answer me, idiot girl!" Truly he hadn't meant to snap, it was a direct violation of his promise to treat her more kindly but his nerves were roiling uncontrollably. What if she had heard something?

"You said what sounded like my n-name."

"Whatever you thought you heard was imagined." His voice came bitingly frigid in the hopes she'd let the matter drop.

"Still, you don't look well, you sweat through your shirt. Are you f-feeling ... _ill_?" At the last she reached out and grazed the small bit of forehead not covered by his mask.

It was an automatic response, sharpened to precision by years of those too foolish to keep their curiosity in check. The next second, Erik had her hand ensnared in his vice-like grip. She cried out in pained shock but it brought her no reprieve.

"Don't touch me!" He squeezed hard for emphasis before violently shoving her hand away.

And, then, in an instant he had stormed off into the night loathing himself. Hating the monster that terrorized, despising the creature that lusted, and above-all detesting the dampness in his breeches: his personal Mark of Cain, proof of his sin.

 **o o o**

The rising sun brought with it the return of Erik's glacial aloofness. If yesterday had been a step towards friendship, today had double-backed five; the abruptness stunned her. They _had_ bickered a touch last night but ultimately parted on good terms and she had not said nor done anything to antagonize since. So why then were they back to moody silence punctuated by his occasional flare of temper?

Christine did not contemplate asking, _not_ that she'd even receive a response _if_ she succumbed to such desperate folly... It wasn't worth the risk. He was mercurial at the very root of its definition: wroth in one minute, tender in the next. Such knowledge was no secret, having been reaffirmed on multiple occasions, but this time was different, the keen sting of regret, of loss, clawed at her core. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd made such progress only to regress. Yes, that _had_ to be it. Even still, the disappointment continued to dolefully haunt but she lacked motive for further analysis, knowing she should just chalk it up to his being a despicable scoundrel, however with every day that passed she was finding him less horrid and _more..._

Good Lord, there _was_ something wrong with her! Christine was given no chance to ponder what had happened to the girl who had once been so assured in her convictions, for she—quite suddenly—found herself being dragged through the brush and shoved against a tree.

" _Wha—?_ " she began, the rest of her words lost to the large hand clamped over her mouth. Brown eyes flared in fury. How dare he? What game was this? She stared back at him, her gaze burning into his with the same searing vitriol he had patented.

Erik simply gestured to the path they had been on seconds before, as if _that_ would answer everything. Christine speared him with another vicious glare until she heard the unmistakable approach of ... _people?_ The voices and footsteps were obviously male. _Odd_ to be confronted with the evidence of humanity having been so long with only him for company, almost as if she had forgotten they two were not the world's sole inhabitants.

Who were these men? Were they farmers or fishermen? Concealed within the little snatch of jungle, she craned her neck for a glimpse through the foliage; _and_ curiosity turned to horror at the sight of weapons.

How could she have failed to remember that she was being hunted?

Events of _that_ night came rushing back with breath-quenching rapidity and she felt as though she might vomit. With him by her side she had put reality's unpleasantness from mind but now, confronted with it, terror swamped her every sense.

Oh God, what were they to do?

Erik slipped off his pack one-handed in reply, placing it on the forest floor, his eyes alight with an unspoken command to stay silent. As soon as she met the calm blue-grey irises a wave of nerve-steadying reassurance washed over her and fright blossomed into giddiness. In an echo of last night mere inches spanned between their bodies, hers capturing the heat of his like gas caught a flame. Christine was entranced, the pounding of her heart, the strange fluttering in her stomach, and _those eyes_ the only things that registered; a finger placed to her lips was enough to ignite her whole being, a hand on her thigh and the gathering wave of nauseous apprehension crashed against her organs, throbbing within her ears.

Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he unsheathed the knife resting there, infecting the muscle with a quivering instability. Her mind grew cloudy as he moved closer still; she couldn't begin to process his intentions. Lord, did he mean to kiss her?! The prospect—startlingly—evoked neither disgust nor protest. Did it then mean the opposite? No, of course not! She was just horribly muddled! Intoxicated and swayed by his scent, his proximity, the heat of his breath fanning over her face, his thrice-damned eyes complecting whatever sorcery strangled her rationality... This wasn't her; she couldn't possibly want such a thing, _not now, not ever._

Yet, traitorous eyelids still flitted and disloyal lips still parted expectantly awaiting his kiss.

It never came.

She opened her eyes in time enough to see the maddening smugness in his expression; _a_ _nd_ , had he not slunk off like a damn jungle cat, she would have walloped him. To hell with Erik and his bloody games! Christine squeezed her fists in anger, surprised to feel resistance digging into her palm.

The knife. When— _how_ had it gotten there? It came to her then, _he_ must have placed it there, the implication clear: defend yourself if need be. And with her returned lucidity came fear both old and new: fear that she'd be captured, fear that he'd _be..._ Christine sank to the ground in a daze and held herself tight letting the tears flow.

He would come back, he simply had to. _  
_

But the stretching moments brought with them no sign and with each passing second she grew number, colder, more lost _._ Eventually her senses were too deadened to perceive the nearing footfalls - although they were so stealthy that they might have gone overlooked - until she saw boots beside her. Friend or foe? Not that it mattered, it was too late for a reaction, she had been uncovered and was being roughly hoisted into a standing position.

"Open your goddamn eyes, girl! We must go!" Even before he had spoken she knew it was him, recognized _his touch_ , and her heart was pierced by subsequent joy.

There stood Erik, in the flesh, his shirtsleeves askew and splashed crimson, his trousers stained with mud mingled red. There was a wide-eyed pause before he relinquished his grip and bade her follow. Throughout the walk she trailed after him, stopping, slowing, and crouching when ordered, her head reeling.

"Are you h-hurt?" she interjected, her words timid and broken. She couldn't account for why she hadn't asked earlier, but all of that blood... The sight shook her, unnerved her, rendered her queasy. What if he had suffered a grievous wound? Lord, she couldn't bear to think on it!

"No, and keep quiet." he growled.

All of that blood and none of it his. _Which meant_ —Oh, Father in Heaven! Like an automaton, she plodded mindlessly forward as her thoughts churned frantically with hideous images and memories.

 **o o o**

They halted for the night as the sun was melting into an orange band on the horizon. With each task completed, she felt more grounded, _more_ solid, and a nagging curiosity overtook her, building until she could no longer endure. She had to know, _had_ to hear either confirmation or denial. "T-Those men... D-Did you kill them?" The question smacked of accusation aloud. There was no immediate answer, instead he persisted in covering their tent with the usual array of camouflaging foliage. "Well? Have you no—"

"Why do _you_ insist on making ridiculous inquiries?" he spat, "Do you truly seek verification of the obvious?" She stared at him, eyes round with shock. "Yes, I killed them, the evidence of my crime is spattered upon my person. _N_ _one_ of it is mine, I assure you. There you have your admission of guilt, little princess." Christine heard his teeth gnash. "Tell me do you take exception to it? Am I to be condemned for a murderer?" He rose gradually, his back to her.

"W-Was there no other way? Could you not have bound and left—" Erik wheeled around with such speed that she instinctively hopped backwards, nearly tripping over a root; his eyes drilling into hers.

"Oh, _yes,_ perhaps I should have extended them an invitation for tea. How remiss of me! Are you dull-witted or does it still elude you that these men will raze villages to find you?! Or, maybe, you'd rather travel back to dear papa with them instead of the hideous, crazed, murderous escort you are presently cursed with? Go ahead, Christine, you have my blessing! I won't receive recompense but I'll travel quicker and be spared your mind-numbing stupidity!" The words poured forth in a steady hiss, his tone somehow more menacing than if he had shouted. With a final scoff of disgust, he turned and resumed his previous chore.

Christine remained stock-still, not daring to speak, not daring to think, until her legs began to tingle with impending numbness and she elected to make herself useful. She slipped away to get firewood, not making it very far before something closed around her arm and a hand caught her scream.

"Do not move." _  
_

 _Ugh, devil take him!_

Was frightening her witless punishment for her earlier transgression? Regardless, it was wholly uncalled for! She wanted to yell and lash out but something eerie in his earlier command gave her pause. One hand withdrew from her face while the other lingered on her arm. "Are you _completely_ mad?! _What_ in the world—"

"Fer-de-lance,"

" _What?!_ What does that mean?" He pointed to a pile of leaves not a meter from her still-outstretched leg; _nothing_ was there and she was quickly tiring of this cryptic exercise.

"A viper, _highly_ venomous, just there. Move back slowly." Despite her continued inability to locate a snake amidst leaf litter, she acquiesced and allowed him to escort her back to camp.

"Can you be trusted to stay here or must I tie you to a tree?" His usual facetious nature seemed restored with the teasing quip. Lord Almighty, she'd _never_ understand his moods! _Not_ that she even wished to... Christine plopped upon a rock and gave a small, disinterested nod. Let him collect the damn firewood, she'd be more than agreeable to sit idle and watch the sun set.

He came back not ten minutes later wearing the satisfied smirk of a schoolboy who had accomplished some great mischief, naught on his person but a smallish wooden box and a look of triumph blazing in his bizarre glaucous eyes.

"Should I bother inquiring?"

"If you please, young Daaé, I'd be glad to show you." Christine massaged her temples, wearily noting that he had spanned four emotions in less than half an hour. And it was said that only women were disposed to hysteria?

"I cannot confess to being interested unless it contains firewood or food."

Erik rested the box on a nearby rock and waved a dismissive hand. "There will be no fire tonight, not with our prior _encounter_. No, this is much more riveting, come have a look." With a roll of her eyes, she trudged over. It took every ounce of her self-control not to shriek.

"Is that a ... _snake_?!" she screeched, "You went off to collect the snake I almost trod on? What on earth for?!" Oh, she wanted nothing more than to throttle him! He _had_ to be the most infuriating example of man on the entirety of this good, green earth!

She eyed his prize derisively: it was around two feet long and stout, colored an ugly conglomeration of mottled browns with a light belly and a horizontal black band running across each side of its head.

Perfectly disgusting.

" _Bothrops lanceolatus_ or fer-de-lance _,_ the only venomous species of snake to inhabit Martinique. It belongs to the Crotaline family, known as pit-vipers, so-called for the indentations between nostril and eye containing organs which allow the animal to sense heat."

"How _utterly_ fascinating." she said flatly.

The little viper was oddly calm— _relaxed_ , almost—it flickered a tiny mauve forked-tongue and stared blankly out of unblinking, slit-pupil eyes. It was the strangest thing. Although she knew nothing of snake behavior, she didn't expect they'd willingly allow themselves to be captured and molested by a giant foreign creature yet here it was content in Erik's hands.

Very peculiar... Christine tore her gaze away from the revolting serpent.

"While this ... _lesson_ on reptile biology is incredibly stimulating, why did you bring that _thing_ into our camp? I thought you said it was poisonous."

" _Venomous,_ " he amended, "Poison must be absorbed or ingested, venom is injected." Shamefully, she found herself hoping he might get bitten right then; it would serve him right! "Though inaccurate in your terminology, you are correct regarding the snake's toxicity; the venom is quite potent. As for your question, my purposes for keeping him are entirely my own."

"You mean we are taking that _thing_ with us?!" Christine's tone went shrill, scratchy in her throat.

There it _was_ , he was delusional; he had to be insane! No one possessed of their right mind would wish to keep something so... hideous and unnatural.

"You needn't worry, he will be secured and unable to escape."

This _couldn't_ be happening. He was _actually_ serious.

While her expedition thus far had not been ideal she had adapted quite well, which, for a young lady of Society was rather remarkable, but Christine would see heaven damned before she'd willingly share what little comfort she retained with this slithering abomination. Maybe persuasion necessitated a divergent tack...

"It seems cruel to keep him confined. Would it not be better if he had freedom to eat and move about in his natural habitat?" From his quirk of brow she knew instantly her plan had failed.

 _Damn!_

"While your concern is touching it is misplaced, reptiles do not metabolize food at the same rate as mammals. A snake this size requires nourishment once or twice a week and he's recently eaten. His species is not a particularly active one, neither quick nor adapted to a mobile lifestyle; vipers prefer the ambush over the hunt."

 _Damn! Damn! Damn!_

Admitting invariable defeat in the matter, she groused sullenly, "So does that mean I too am to be relegated to weekly meals?"

"Of course not," Erik bowed, when he rose the snake had been replaced by a can. He tossed it to her; she caught it with a thunk. " _Supper_ , as my princess commands..."

"Do you expect me to open it with my teeth?" He flicked something at her in rejoinder, a blur of silver in the low light, it whistled through the air and stuck fast into the ground at her feet. When she identified it she was livid. "You threw a knife at me?! In the dark, no less! Would you have even cared if you had hit me?"

He guffawed, characteristic smirk undoubtedly garnishing his face. "Had I wished to hit you, I most certainly would have, dark or no." In that same darkness she struggled to expose the contents of the can, stabbing at the tin to vent her frustration and having little success.

"Christ, girl, are you mutilating or opening that?"

"Perhaps if there was light could see what I was doing!" she retorted snappishly, wishing the can was his face. A strike, a hiss, and a small lantern came to life, casting the camp in a mire of dim illumination and shadows.

"Does _that_ serve, little princess?"

Hunger compelled her to ignore the annoying moniker and continue her endeavor. Christine labored for several more minutes before Erik grabbed it with a huff, handing it back opened. He wiped the knife on his breeches eyeing her hesitation with derision.

"Do not fret, it's not the same blade I used to dispatch our _friends_." he sneered coldly, "Your supper is untainted by blood."

The meal was eaten in quietude apart from the sound of chewing, neither of them glancing at the other. Tempers ran high and both recognized that only conflict would follow any conversation started at present.

An hour afterwards he sat cleaning and loading his pistol whilst Christine attempted to read her botanical field guide, her mind drifting to a day which had begun - and seemed destined to end - with a nightmare. And what a day it had been! A day fraught with criminals, serpents, murder, _that almost-kiss._ She shook her head, mutely observing the expert skill with which he handled the pistol and indeed _all_ weapons, noting the lithe, long fingers, _wondering_ how they'd feel tangled in her hair as _he..._ Desperate to rid her head of bodies, slithering things, and _him_ , she perforated the reticence.

"Have you always been in this... _line of work_?"

"To exactly _which_ line of work do you refer?"

From the acerbity in his tone, it was clear she had offended and she strove for more neutral phrasing. "Surviving off your wits, _fighting_." A dark and mirthless laugh answered; her skin tingled to hear its malice.

" _Ah_ , and here I had been contemplating what tragic past you had dreamt up for me, now I needn't wait any longer! Did you think me the result of a laborer's rut with a whore? That, neglected and as good as orphaned, I left because the slut who birthed me was either too drunk or indifferent to provide for me, dragging myself from the gin-soaked gutters by my fingernails? And, following years of stealing books to teach myself letters and brawling for morsels, I took to the sea to find honest work?" Erik took her quiet as confirmation, his scowl sharp and cutting. "Alas, I'm afraid I must disappoint... I am _not_ the offshoot of a drudge, in fact, the circumstances into which I was born surpass most, including your own. Does that stun, little princess? I can see it does." He beamed maniacally, offering a grand flourish, "Here before you stands the eldest son of the Earl of Chiltern, young Daaé."

Her mouth sagged into an O of bug-eyed surprise. There was perverse satisfaction in her shock, well worth the reveal. "Yes, the Lord Erik Charles Grey, Viscount Latimer... _or_ so was my father's courtesy title until I renounced both it and him at the tender age of thirteen. Do not look so afflicted, my girl!" He tutted scornfully. "It was not as irresponsible as it seems, I did mention I had a brother so my _dear_ father was not without an heir. To him my flight was a divine blessing, of that I have no qualms; he was rid of a troublesome child, one who was of irritatingly sound health and mind, one whose legitimacy he could not even argue. I look remarkably like my father, you understand, I've his same eyes, coloring, and build, it's been said that my face is the very image of his. Well, _half_ of it, that is..." Again he relished in her awe, supping on it, feeling himself grow bolder and stronger in his crazed confession. He had said far more than he wanted, why not bare it all? She _wanted_ to know.

Well, _by God_ she would!

An unhinged chuckle rattled from his lips, mixing with short, rapid breaths. "Did you think I wore the mask to enhance my roguish charm? Let me disabuse you of that notion, let me dash your illusions and plague your nightmares to come. And the nightmares _will_ come, of that you can be sure, for my face is more hideous than death itself. When I was a torturer for the Persian Shah it was my most effective device, more productive than the pliers, knives, or any macabre device conjured by my twisted mind; it could break the hardest of men with greater efficiency than rack or wheel." He took a menacing step forward, one step nearer her. Christine tried to shrink away but, petrified, stayed rooted to the spot.

"I was called the Angel of Doom, a title I earned a thousand times over. _W_ _hy_ , you'd be harried to uncover a more apt description ever bestowed upon a man. It haunted every one of them, my face, just as it haunted my father. For all the hatred he showed me, I was glad I could give him that." A pause and he cleared his throat.

"You asked about the mask before, young Daaé. Most men I wouldn't have suffered to ask at all, let alone twice. And, had your welfare not been entrusted to me, I might have snapped your pretty neck the moment I gleaned your designs to unmask me; it would have proved no more difficult than breathing, just the _barest_ flick of wrist _and..._ " He snapped his fingers for accentuation.

Words honed his grin to a demonic sneer and she was convinced this was how the serpent had appeared to Eve. "That frightens you, _yes_? As well it should. I am a dangerous man and you are a clever child, so very delicate, so very _easy_ to break. Can you feel the way your body stiffens, tension humming through each individual hair? Do you perceive the frantic clip of your pulse, the way each breath draws in less air, the weakness spreading into your legs, which feel as though they would collapse were your knees not locked? That is _fear_ , sweet girl, unadulterated terror. Isn't it _magnificent_?" The question was punctuated by an emphasizing inhale.

"Perhaps you _want_ to flee but know you've no chance at escape. But this is far from novel, you've feared me from the beginning, haven't you? It may have ebbed somewhat with time but still it remains at your core, an instinct, of sorts; the subconscious can sense a threat before the host is cognizant, intuition always recognizes a monster. You tremble, you cower, you grapple with what it may mean to provoke this beast whose heart is blacker than pitch _... and_ _yet_ persist all the same. Foolishness is hazardous, but your mind quietens all protest in the name of interest. Even now that curiosity burns hungrily, I can see it in those lovely eyes. Despite the knowledge that such a wish may well be your last, _nevertheless_ you are willing to gamble your very life." He closed the distance between them, a great, looming shadow.

"How _intriguing_ you are, Christine! It is a rare occurrence indeed to pique my attention, so to you I offer the _'_ gift' you desire, I offer a free glimpse of the horror."

She shut her eyes tightly and turned her head, but he seized her chin, jerking her face forward. "You _will_ look." he hissed, "This was what you wanted after all, my dear, _savor it_. Maybe you should learn to be more careful with your wishes."

And he removed the mask.

Good Lord, it was _horrible_!

All tangled, mottled, broken, twisted, knotted skin and bone. A ruin; a mess; _scarcely a face._ The faint glow of the lantern rendered it more grotesque, more dreadful.

Christine's mouth dropped open, precursor to a mute scream. Whatever she had envisioned was _nothing_ to the reality. She had accepted there would be scarring, likely owing to a wartime injury, but not like _this_... _This_ which defied classification, _this_ which looked more appropriate rendered on a page of some obscure medical textbook than in actual flesh. The grip around her wrists tightened, his mouth curving into a leer of validation, apparently delighted by her panic.

Half beauty, half beast; half monster, half man; half angel, half demon: an exercise in duality recalling the Roman coins of Janus papa had once brought her from Italy. Christine steeled herself for the battle ahead, prepared to claw, bite, kick, punch, whatever it took to get free; an internal voice-of-reason reminding her of the knife sheathed at her thigh.

But then her sweeping, panicked gaze met his eyes—those cool, cleansing eyes uniquely Erik—and her terror evaporated, her budding scream retreating, nestling back within her chest, curled like a cat before a hearth. His grasp slackened, the slight tremor in his hands nearly undetectable; it appeared her sudden calmness unnerved him. They stared at each other, neither knowing quite what else to do, every minute that elapsed an infusion of confidence.

Christine made the grave indiscretion of speaking then, believing his rage to be spent. All she sought to do was reassure, to make it known that she was _not_ like the others: his father, the Shah, the countless cruel masses... Too late did she ken her fatal error.

"I'm sorry, so _very_ sorry. You didn't warrant such treatment, not any of it. It's not _you_ who are the monster, Erik, your father and the Shah are the true villains." She took care to speak at a compassionate hush, as one might adopt to comfort a child during a storm.

This proved more of a mistake than her carefully-selected words.

" _No?_ "

He shoved her away with such abrupt brutality that she tumbled hard into the dirt. He towered over her, seething with electric wrath that was like to shoot forth; writhing, crackling anger sparking off his person in a brush discharge, like the Tesla oscillator she had seen as a girl. His entire body was alive it. No longer Erik, this was the Angel of Doom; his eyes ghastly, _mad_ , two glowing red coals that threatened to incinerate if met directly.

She knew true fear then.

The kind that twines itself about a person until it cuts off all breath, choking every scream, paralyzing the body completely. _Suffocating, tangible fear._ Mind blank, senses dead to all but fathomless terror she uttered a feeble, tottering appeal.

 _Laughter_ , a booming peal of malevolent laughter, the sole response she received. Erik's laughs were rarer than emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds and to her more precious than all combined. But _this_ \- she'd swear to her grave - was the chortle of the Devil. No mortal could generate a sound so horrifying yet mellifluous nor could an angel produce one so evil. Once she'd been positive he would never harm her.

 _Now, however..._

Would he rain blows upon her, beating her insensible? Would he rip her soul from her body as payment for her blunder? Or would he simply snap her neck?

Certain these could well be her final moments, Christine managed another pathetic mewling plea, arm raised over her head part in supplication, part in defense should the kicks and punches come.

" _Not_ a monster, you say, yet you recoil from me like Periboea thrown to the Minotaur... Well, there is no Theseus to save you, dear girl, you are completely at _my_ mercy. What is to stop me from devouring you, from wringing that dainty neck?" A bone-rattling shiver tore through her; he grinned savagely to witness it. " _Ah_ , but alas I am not a _complete_ beast, there's your shred of humanity, of 'goodness'! I will allow you to plead your case. Why shouldn't I wrap my hands about your throat? Tell me, Christine. _Why?_ "

" _Well?_ The monster grows impatient. I'll not wait an eternity."

"I-I meant no affront. _I f-feel..._ " She drew a steadying inhale, "I feel awful that you, you who are brilliant, gifted, and kind were treated so abominably. You did not deserve that, _nobody_ does, and for something outside of your con—"

"SPARE ME YOUR FUCKING PITY, GIRL!" he roared, "I'd rather you bedamn my name and flee than withstand your goddamn platitudes!" The leer twisting his already hellish features lent him an uncanny resemblance to the gargoyles atop Notre-Dame Cathedral; the whole of his face evocative of a subject from Goya's Black Paintings fused with Ingres' depiction of classic beauty. His flawless - handsome, _even_ \- left side was the last thing she saw before he tied the mask back into place and whirled away.

Eight days spent in his constant company had endowed her with a sense of his habits, rendering Erik somewhat predictable, and his actions left but one conclusion to be drawn: he was leaving.

Leaving her scared; leaving her defenseless; leaving her _alone_.

Before she could stop herself she had cried out, her entreaty crumbling against a stony wall of silence and swallowed by the precipitating interlude.

" _I-I don't want to be alone,_ " Christine murmured to her boots as if they might care or console.

" _Not_ alone, you have Adam; he is a living, breathing creature, is he not?"

"Adam...?" Then she realized. "The _snake_?! You _named_ that disgusting reptile?"

"You shouldn't be so judgmental, little princess, for you two are one in the same. Different species, perhaps, but both vipers notwithstanding." Caught out by his statement, she stood temporarily dumbstruck. What defense could she give? What was there to say? She opened her mouth with the hope of conjuring some comment only to find empty space.

Just as the day before last, just like this morning, just as this afternoon, he was _gone._ Words lingered in his wake, bits of burning paper torn from the morbid pages of Gothic fiction swirling about, stirring the air.

 _Torturer._

 _Horror._

 _Death._

 _Nightmare._

 _Monster._

 _Beast._

She was aware he had killed, conscious he had seen combat and violence, but had absolved him of these crimes; it was kill or be killed in war and here, pursued like game, the same principle applied. Every death at his hands had been for _her_ safety; he had saved her life on two occasions. Killing in defense surely wasn't a sin the same as baseless murder.

But he had also _tortured,_ inflicted unspeakable suffering - Lord, she didn't even wish to think upon whom - to feed the gruesome caprices of a twisted man. Worse still, there was no remorse in the way he recounted this information, instead he did so almost gleefully, his voice resonating with malicious exuberance. He enjoyed the kill and made no attempt to hide it. Maybe his motives weren't so noble after all...

 _How_ could she reconcile such evil? _Why_ would she want to?

As she sat down awaiting his return Christine ruminated upon these two questions, turning them over and over in her brain, chasing after an answer or—at the very least _—_ some clarity.

* * *

 **Well, that happened...**

 **A/N: Periboea was one of the maidens intended to be sacrificed to the Minotaur and on the way there is assaulted by King Minos; she's rescued by Theseus.**


	15. Residuum

**A/N: So this chapter was not even supposed to exist, instead the next chapter was to directly follow Erik's little tantrum. However, I decided after all that angst there needed be a buffer of sorts and that yielded this chapter right here. I also did it because I felt more introspection and processing time was needed by both characters (and possibly readers as well).**

 **This one is on the fluffy side, well... as close as these two can get to it, anyway, lol. I wanted to try and capture the sort of awkward, anxious prequel to a romantic relationship in this chapter; where you guys mutually like one another but neither of you has admitted your feelings to the other and are maybe just starting to recognize that they run deeper than platonic friendship. As always, I hope I'm nailing it; let me know if I'm not.**

 **And you also get more of Erik's backstory, so that's a plus. Just a word of advice on that bit, re-reading the prologue might help allay confusion about timeline and certain characters.**

* * *

 **5 May - Night 9  
**

Some distance away in the welcoming darkness Erik threw himself down upon a stump only for unrest to almost immediately propel him back onto his feet. With a frustrated growl he began to pace unable to will himself to stillness, his usually resolute command over his body faltering. But was this lapse in his control truly any wonder in the face of what had just occurred, of the sins he had just committed?

He could not have stayed a moment longer, it was impossible in every sense; _s_ _he_ made everything impossible, she had from the start. Tonight she had harped; she had challenged; she had pressed; and then, with one bloody look she had completely undone, unravelled him at his very source. With a single glance, Christine had cut him adrift, slicing through the steel cables of terror with which the Angel of Doom strangled his victims.

No one had escaped him before. The sting of failure was so acute and wholly foreign that the very sky seemed to implode around him; even the autonomic act of respiration had become a Herculean struggle. So he left, took the coward's out and fled. Broken and vanquished, he couldn't bear his humiliation witnessed and slunk off into the night to lick his wounds in peace.

His rage had long-since dissipated, doused like a candle - _another_ one of her doings - and it had been the _only_ thread holding him together. He had torn his mask off to punish. There was power in fear, there always had been. Fear was his truest ally and most familiar friend; fear could induce respect, demolish pride, avenge insult, force love, erode bravery...

—but Christine had taken even _that_ from him.

Had she screamed or swooned? No. She recoiled, _yes_ , and for a glorious instant he saw that horror, that mindless, enthralling horror, gathering at the precipice; then _,_ in that final look before the descent, her eyes had shone with something unexpected, something disastrous: acceptance.

And he _hated_ her for it, detested her with such vehemence it made him physically ill. Why could she not have cursed the monster like everyone else, like his own father, had done? Her face remained emblazoned in his mind, the way she even had the audacity to smile at him as if he were a person like any other! As if he deserved something so flawless, so _normal_.

Reflection then turned to her smiles; things which he had never noted with any great interest before, until they were contrasted against his ugliness. Strange, how such effusive, brilliant things—radiant as sunsets—eluded his observation for so long. It was the thought of these tiny, inconsequential gems, these little blessings upon his soul that finally drew him back, eager for even the barest chance to see one again.

 **o o o**

No words existed in English, French - nor in any other language, she was sure - to capture the relief and exultation that overcame Christine at the sight of _his_ figure emerging from the blackness as if it had birthed him; and it _could_ well have done for all she knew. But she couldn't bring herself to speculate on such things, not presently, and knew only an efflux of joy.

Head bowed ever-so-slightly with as much humility as he dare manage, the Prodigal Son returned, stepping penitent into the murky light.

Mute and unable to meet her eye he came to sit with her upon a felled tree, careful to place a buffer of space between them; though she wanted to move closer she refrained for the sake of his comfort. They sat like that for some time, the two of them, absorbing and processing in the aftermath.

When Christine at last found her voice, it came constricted and thick; she wet her lips. "The war?"

The question required no preamble or extrapolation, both knew of what she spoke.

"No."

" _How?_ "

Truthfully she hadn't foreseen receiving an answer. A week as his companion had proven, time and time again, that he was an intensely private person, mum about nearly all personal affairs. She would sooner bet upon Raoul joining the corps de ballet than Erik voluntarily divulging anything about himself outside of pain of death (and probably not even _then_ ). And yet, it seemed the evening was destined to be one of surprises.

"I was cursed from birth. My mother was an avid horsewoman and my father did not care enough to forbid riding in the later months of her condition, nor did he show her the attention that might have kept her from galloping across the moors with reckless abandon. One day following a heavy rain her horse lost its footing and she took a terrible fall; she was barely alive when discovered by a tenant farmer, the physician accredited both her survival and mine to a _miracle_."

At this he laughed bitterly as though he alone was privy to the funniest thing in the known world. "As _if_ it were anything but a bane that she should bear such a child mere months later."

"Any affection my father harbored for her was snuffed out the _moment_ he saw the son and heir with which Fate had saddled him. His firstborn son: a monster made flesh, sporting half of the features he held in such high esteem!" Another caustic chuckle and he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, the line spouted like the climax of a joke. "To add further insult, it was a decade before my mother carried another infant to term. He returned home from his card games and whores three days after my brother was born. I relished in the disappointment when my father looked upon him, undoubtedly expecting to see himself in unadulterated miniature _—_ to see what his eldest _should_ have been _—_ and saw no traits of his save a few wisps of black hair. Where I took after him, his unmarred son resembled the wife he had come to resent and despise." Again Erik guffawed, "The Universe tends to be _delightfully_ ironic, does it not?"

For her part, Christine stared somberly into darkness grinding her teeth in anger. While Erik had recounted the information with perverse amusement, she found no humor in it. Granted she _had_ ruminated over his origins intrigued by what events had created such a person. At first she believed him to be a lowly criminal or perhaps a troubled, truant child, however the reality was far worse than anything she could have conjured. Yes, he was born into wealth and prestige but what were these so-called 'securities' in the shadow of what he had endured at the hands of his 'aristocratic' relatives? She couldn't bring herself to look at him, wouldn't show him the shock and revulsion in her eyes lest he again mistake it for pity, and simply clenched her fists repeatedly until he put an end to the night.

"Come, young Daaé, I believe that's quite enough storytelling for one evening." he said with a sardonic curl of lip.

She nodded and bade him a curt good-night, glad when he did not enter the tent after her to witness her tearful assault upon her bedroll.

* * *

A dark figure stormed down the hallway to his apartments, revelling in the click of his boot heels against the stone floor.

 _Idiots!_ _Imbeciles! Bastards_ the lot of them!

The better part of the past year had been spent developing a specialized poison for the odious Shah—one which would aid him in his twisted interrogations—and Erik had succeeded, accomplishing what even _he_ believed impossible; he had delivered on his promise and what reaction had his effort won? A bored shrug and placid indifference!

 _Well, no more!_

Today had been the crux, he was ready to leave this barbaric wasteland. "Let us see how the great, bloody fool manages on his own!" he roared, seizing a blessed libation and taking a long swig straight from the decanter. Erik's scowl deepened when he felt the crunch of glass underfoot - a shrine to a previous outburst of temper - and he knelt to clean it up, abandoning the task in short order.

Fuming, he turned to run his bloodied hands under the tap and ... _staggered?_ with the movement. Instantly thereafter he felt the numbness engulf his extremities, then his limbs, and a fractional second later comprehension dawned.

His _own_ poison used against him.

There was naught to be done; soon the paralysis would be total. He sank to the floor as his legs gave out marvelling at the reversal of fortune. _Who_ was the imbecile now?

Vaguely he became aware of another presence within his chambers but without the use of his limbs he was helpless. He was a goner, killed in an ironic twist of fate. His final prayer was that the dosage would prove enough to kill him quickly. If not it could be a rather protracted affair and he _so_ hated those.

Erik had surrendered to the blackness willingly, aware that struggle was futile. But as his senses slowly returned he realized something was incredibly amiss. _Unless..._ there really was a reality following death? A raspy gag, meant as a chuckle, left his parched throat at the sheer absurdity of the prospect. Dimly he became aware of a voice in the room, a voice addressing ... _him_? How very odd! Yet as the voice became clearer, sensation trickling back into unresponsive limbs, he was faced with another possibility, that he hadn't died after all. Which, begged the questions:

 _Where in the hell was he?_ And, _why?_

 _Most likely the Shah testing his new toy,_ logic suggested. Lord, how he hated that man!

Sluggishly, he opened his eyes and was met with another queer surprise, he was _not_ in the palace. This room lacked all grandeur and finery. Even the palace's torture chambers were elegantly finished owing to the Shah's proclivity for morbid entertainment. After all, _how_ could a grand and illustrious ruler be expected to sit amongst the rats in the dungeon whilst he watched his master torturer at work? No, the bloated dolt would never set one silk-shod foot in such a shabby setting.

Once again - and to his infinite vexation - he was faced with the same damn questions. It didn't help that his eyes were still adjusting, the sum of his vision comprised of rough, blurry shapes.

He could only _just_ discern the fuzzy outline of a table at which a person sat. What in God's name was happening? As if having read his mind, someone then spoke:

"You're a difficult man to secure an appointment with." Now things grew _more_ bizarre for the words were spoken in English and by a native speaker.

"That doesn't seem to have given you pause." Erik retorted, his voice choked, brittle.

The man chuckled. "True, however, it is _y_ _ou_ I have to thank for the opportunity."

"I am _sincerely_ flattered. Now, who in the hell are you and why am I in _this_... hovel?"

"I'm quite glad you've asked!" was the chipper rejoinder, "My reasoning is straightforward: _you_ are a fascinating specimen, brilliant as you are deadly. I've spent the last few months studying you and your accomplishments, which, is why you'll forgive my taking _certain_ precautions..." The man trailed off, drawing attention to the rope that bit into Erik's wrists and ankles.

It was _his_ turn to laugh; though the sound was robbed of malice by the dryness in his throat. "Clearly you're still woefully ignorant if you labor under the delusion such crude restraints can hold me. What is to prevent me from simply killing you?"

Another chortle and the blurry silhouette shrugged, "Absolutely _nothing_ save the fact that you might find what I have to say interesting. After all, I know your identity."

He scoffed. "A pathetic argument for one who desires to keep his life. I am quite well-known in the city, knowledge of my identity is far from clandestine."

"Ah, _yes_... The Angel of Doom, isn't it? A bit theatrical, don't you think?"

"True, it is not the moniker I'd have chosen but I find it still has the intended effect."

"Oh, I don't doubt that, not at all! However, your talents aren't solely limited to assassination, are they?" The stranger produced a vial and swirled it absentmindedly in the sunlight. "Your poison, for instance, is _very_ intriguing. Curare is the active component, is it not?"

For the first time in a long while, Erik was genuinely shocked and nearly let slip his façade of collected indifference. "What of it?"

"Peculiar substance, curare, harmless if handled or ingested but _when it enters the bloodstream..._ well, I needn't tell you. More remarkable still is that its effects are completely reversible, leaving no lasting damage. Such a poison is rudimentary but incredibly toxic, nonetheless, a prime example of your genius."

Still-clouded eyes narrowed, "As charming as it is to hear my virtues so kindly extolled, I think I'd rather terminate this little meeting." He attempted to stand as he spoke the words, but underestimated his residual clumsiness, falling back into his chair ungracefully.

There was a stifled yawn. "I believe you'll have to wait to dispose of me until the effects of your poison wear off. You know, it was a bit of a conundrum determining how to administer it. I _am_ dreadfully sorry about the crystal, though, it was of superb quality."

 _The glass shards._

Of course... _  
_

"How could you be certain I'd cut myself?"

"We weren't, which, is why we poisoned the cognac with something of our own."

"Chloral hydrate," Erik stated flatly; it wasn't a question. He felt more witless than ever.

"Very good! I see you like riddles, my boy, here's another: how does a young man of good-breeding end up in this godforsaken place?"

After a moment of glowering silence, the man smiled. "No ideas? No matter, I have a riveting little anecdote I'd very much like to share with you in the meantime." Without pause, he began, "In the late summer of 1870, an heir was born to The Earl and Countess Chiltern, one Erik Charles Grey, The Viscount Latimer; and while the boy was born healthy, there were unspecified _complications_. There's little account of the young Lord Latimer's early life, although his school years were somewhat tumultuous; he ran away from several and was implicated in a variety of incidents, including a rather nasty one concerning a school captain and a cricket bat. Things continued in that vein until his thirteenth year, in which he seemingly disappeared from England altogether whilst en route to a new school."

"You do not find my story enjoyable?" He glanced up at Erik's murderous scowl and clucked his tongue. "Pity. Maybe you will reconsider once you hear the rest."

"Now, I'm unsure where fantasy diverges from reality after that point, mind you, but coincidentally in September of 1883 a steamer departed Cornwall - Lord Latimer's last known whereabouts - for the Indian Colony. Three years later reports from workers surfaced of a boy called 'Grey', employed by the Indian Railroad to track and shoot man-eating beasts; they say he wore a mask and hunted only under cover of darkness. Though scarcely more than a boy, he was already gaining quite the reputation for his skill; six months later his prey changed. I suppose he discovered hunting men to be a more lucrative endeavor. Locals began calling him a spirit, _a phantom_. A year or so later, young Grey vanished, as phantoms are wont to do. What had befallen him was anybody's guess... _until_ whispers started coming out of Persia; rumors of a court assassin, which is itself nothing extraordinary, except for the _other_ tales: stories of his voice, his music, his hidden face. Soon this masked assassin became legend. There was gossip in the palace of a great genius: a chemist, architect, illusionist, and composer; some in the palace knew him as Erik and to others he was the Angel of Doom."

"So," he hissed, "you've captured me to share campfire narratives and sing my praises?"

"Not at all, not at all! As I've previously said, I merely wished to meet you, Erik." He met Erik's searing glare with a polite grin. "Would you rather be called Grey? Phantom? Angel of Doom? _Lord Latimer_ , perhaps? "

"Is this your purpose, then, to return me to my father with the hope of collecting some sumptuous reward? Please _do_ tell me his reaction when you contact him; I am certain it will provide me endless amusement for years to come."

"God, _no!_ " He guffawed. "You see, I have brought you here to offer you a position."

"Shackle myself to a desk when I have the world and its riches at my disposal?" Erik sneered. "You'll forgive me if I decline..."

"Oh, my boy, I'd never presume to place you anywhere _near_ a desk! No, no, no... You're an adventurer at heart, Erik, one blessed with limitless curiosity and the skill to implement your imaginings. Is it truly your ambition to wile away your life _here_ , crafting palaces and playthings for a man who doesn't appreciate your abilities? _Here_ , in this land of savages, where one misstep might land you in one of the torture devices you've concocted or with your head on a spike? You are destined for far greater things. I can offer you these and so much more."

Erik's eyes glittered greedily, his countenance shifting into cool politeness; the man gave a little cough to conceal his unease at the swift change.

"You have my rapt attention, _Captain ..._ "

"Clarkson."

* * *

 **6 May - Day 9**

The unforeseen inquiry into his past colored his dreams and bore him back to the fateful meeting... _Not_ a nightmare, but not pleasant, either.

Morning found Erik stiff and sore, his muscles and joints uniting in protest of his chosen pallet of earth and fern. He stretched through enough of the discomfort to move unhindered and, judging that suitable, began his litany of daily tasks. Throwing a final disdainful glance at the place which had served as a makeshift bed last night, he erased all trace of his having been there, smoothing the dirt with his boot.

Last night.

Two words that hung thick and rancid in the pre-dawn air. What in the hell had come over him? What had he been thinking in laying his darkest secret bare before her? What must she think of her escort now?

 _Deranged, murderous, unpredictable, brutish, monstrous..._

All words she should have hurled at him upon his shameful return but didn't. Perhaps she was too terrified; perhaps her contrition was merely an act of self-preservation to avoid provoking the beast further; perhaps she had been biding her time and would be gone when he peeked through the tent flaps.

He'd have to track her down of course. His assignment was to fetch her back to Oxfordshire and he was resolved to do just that, regardless of how vain and stupid and spoiled she was. Besides the jungle posed a greater danger to the inexperienced than he did, no matter how villainous he was. There were countless ways to die, none of them nice: a tumble off a cliff, a treacherous river current, the thugs who hunted, by scorpion, snake, or spider...

And so, he'd have to chase after Christine in order to save her from herself, the fool child. Although, there would be extreme doubt over her willingness to accompany him once more and with due cause, after all, he had surely destroyed all trust last night. To her he'd be the same mad criminal who abducted her that first night and she would give him no alternative but to reinforce that perception; her thrice-damned stubbornness would likely force him to bind her like a prisoner and that would prove tedious.

But he had given his word that he'd return her to her father and, despite the exasperating burden it promised to be, he would do so. For all his faults, numerous and irreconcilable, he was a man of his word.

Or was he?

He had made a promise, given his sanctified word, to another. What of that? A twinge of guilt wrenched his innards, joining the aches and pains that already assailed him. Erik had discarded their truce - one he had proposed - with the fickleness of a child with a new toy. And for no reason outside of the dream spawned by his lewd mind... It was no fault of hers. No, the blame was his entirely; but how could he reconcile having such thoughts? In truth they had deeply unnerved him. Never before had he been thus affected by a woman; he knew lust, _yes_ , but never veiled in dreams. Panicked, Erik had transferred his fear and confusion unto her, and aiming to maintain his composure he had reverted to comfortable detachment dismissing the hurt he believed he saw glinting in her eyes as illusion.

There was nothing there. Or so he told himself. She simply tolerated his presence, thought of him as the onus she was obliged to contend in order to ensure her safety, she did not regard him as a friend or even an acquaintance. Theirs was a relationship built on necessity, on business. No more, no less. Erik was aware that's how he should view it as well and yet he found himself actually missing their banter, her smiles, her heated conviction in argument, the way she grew nervous with a question and fidgeted...

Christ, he was declining into lunacy! He was a hardened man: a soldier, a sailor, a hunter. Alas, here he was pining like a bloody Shakespearean hero! This worrying effect _—her_ effect—was the impetus for his decision to sleep outside, not shame over his behavior; her absence was meant as a talisman against the desire that stalked his dreams, and an efficient one. Indeed he _had_ dreamt but not about her. Even so, he was uncertain his body could withstand another night spent amongst pebbles, roots, hard ground, and vines.

Apprehensively he hazarded a glance inside the tent afraid of confirming her flight (and with it his culpability), relieved to find her still there and by all appearances resting peacefully.

Over the next - _well_ , he didn't bother to consult his wristwatch - _however long_ , Erik continued readying for what was sure to be an awkward day. He quietly shaved, packed, consulted navigational charts, ate, and prepared an apology of sorts; a sweep of their food bag produced a small, overlooked tin of black currant jam and a sojourn in the forest yielded some honey (and quite a few bee stings). Now he arranged the spoils of his quests, carving up the remaining papaya into bite-sized chunks, upon a tin plate: a biscuit with honey and jam, fresh papaya, and coffee - not a bad haul for nine days in the wilderness. Every chore was carried out with a certain lightness in his step, her choice to stay when he deserved nothing but contempt having a more profound impact than he cared to admit. Hopefully when she awoke they could put the past behind them and begin anew.

Meanwhile he waited, his list of duties complete, patiently for her to rise (as patiently as he could). She would stir soon and Erik took to pacing to pass the time eager to test the waters and have done. When at last he heard the unmistakable sounds of life within the tent he retreated to give her privacy, checking that his mask was secure. One glimpse of his ghoulish, horrific face was quite enough; there would not be a second, accidental or no.

She emerged shortly thereafter, a touch haggard but overall no worse for wear and his stomach leapt anxiously. Instantly he berated himself and his thrice-damned nerves.

"Good morning. I laid out breakfast for you." He cleared the hitch from his throat, "It's not much but I hope will be to your liking."

Bleary eyes scanned and located the aforementioned meal and her face split into an immediate, effervescent smile. Warmth blossomed in his chest to see it. _Could it ..._ could it truly be no lasting damage had been wrought by his outburst and subsequent dark confessions? A quarter of an hour ago he would have offered unequivocal denial but at present he wasn't so sure. Though it was too much to hope he grasped firmly onto a sliver of faith and held fast, not daring to move.

"Is that jam and ... _honey_?" Her voice cracked slightly with the sharp intonation and he nodded, frowning at the obvious tears swimming in her eyes. Did she not care for sweet accompaniments? Was she allergic? Did she see through his placating gesture? Good Lord, he was lamentably ill-equipped to handle the enigmatic whims of women!

All questions ceased, however, when she thrust herself upon him in another embrace, so like the first that had incited everything. "Oh, it's _lovely_ , thank you!" Christine whispered, the moist heat of her breath flaring against his chest. Erik fiercely debated whether or not to pull away but in a bold move that shocked even him he lifted one hand and stiffly patted her on the back, muttering a trite assurance that it was nothing.

After a moment she withdrew, blush staining her cheeks; he felt a forlorn emptiness at the retreat. "Nonetheless, I'm grateful. _But,_ " her forehead wrinkled in thought, "wherever did you find honey and jam?"

"Another secret..." he supplied with a shrug, echoing back to his response over the papayas. Christine accepted his answer with a shake of her head and proceeded to gobble every morsel on her plate, draining the mug of coffee with a satisfied slurp and wiping her mouth upon her sleeve.

"Sorry for my coarseness, I should exhibit finer manners in the company of an Earl's son. Apologies, _my lord._ "

Erik blinked stupidly, the realization that she was jesting nearly lost on him. Loath to spend his unmerited umpteenth chance, he played into the joke. "You've no cause for remorse, manners were never my forte much to the chagrin of my nannies; were you to devour porridge like a hound, you'd hear no chastisement from me. Although, such concerns are irrelevant as I am no longer the son of an Earl, so feel at ease to behave as vulgarly as you dare, young Daaé."

"Once a lord, _always_ a lord." She announced with an irritating smirk whilst they shouldered their respective burdens. "You shouldn't have told me for I can no longer look at your noble bearing without recalling your blueness of blood. I'm afraid I'm helpless not to address you with the proper respect, _my lord._ "

Christine flounced away leaving a cross Erik behind and giggling to herself. He still insisted on referring to her as 'little princess', well now he had his _own_ vexing little nickname. It took two to play a game, as it was said, and currently they were at even odds. In no time Erik had caught up as she knew he would, careful study of his posture and expression - what small bit she could see, anyway - revealed no trace of animosity and she endeavored to hope that they were again on good terms.

Nothing short of a miracle following last night.

In all rationality she should spare no considerations for a man like him, a deceitful, unprincipled murderer. Were she a prudent girl, a smart girl, she'd flee at first chance. How could she entrust her well-being to a person who killed without scruples, who so callously devalued life itself? Logic told her it was fatuity plain and simple. After all, one did not walk into a tiger's cage and expect to not be devoured. Every ounce of sense she possessed proclaimed trusting Erik was mad. Well, maybe she _was_ going slightly daft after spending so much time removed from civilization. She had read about similar things happening to shipwreck survivors and explorers who went missing deep in the jungle. Maybe she was suffering from the same affliction, who was to say?

But despite his terrifying fit of fury and the hideous secret hidden beneath the mask Christine could not bring herself to condemn him; on the contrary she felt more deeply for him than before. Something in his brutally raw honesty was humanizing. Abhorring her companion was easy when he was cold and distant, when his rage had no discernible cause and cruelty disguised his every gesture, but with his revelation she understood. He was not unfeeling but instead felt acutely, probably _more_ acutely than he'd willingly concede. He was not a heartless automaton or a monster, he was simply a man, a man who had been twisted every way by _real_ devils; scorned from the beginning by his own father, alone since boyhood, friendless in a foreign land, naturally he had fallen for the manipulations of a powerful man like the Shah.

Previously spoken words materialized within her mind, written in fiery script:

 _Have you ever been a victim of circumstance, cursed or constrained by something beyond your influence?_

Of course she had been able to empathize with _that_ question! Was she not currently masquerading as a boy for the freedom to pursue her academic interests uninhibited? But everything else he had said concerning the tragedy of the Byronic hero, she had sneered at that ascending the moral high-ground and spewing sanctimony in his face. Now Christine saw everything rendered in sudden and striking clarity. Erik _was_ Heathcliff; he _was_ Rochester. It was little wonder he sympathized with their plights, he was cut from the same shroud of misfortune as they were. Oh God, and how appallingly she had treated him! Was she truly any better than those she castigated for his corruption?

Well, she _could_ be and she _should_ be and, devil take her, she _would_ try!

No longer did she despise her escort but instead... well, she liked him. Like _not_ love; there was assuredly _nothing_ romantic in it.

 **o o o**

The conversation that afternoon was sparse—virtually nonexistent—as anticipated in the wake of such emotional turmoil and Christine didn't push the matter. Erik seemed to be cultivating a courteous distance between them, not one of aloofness but reticence. She knew he'd participate in discourse if she engaged him but sensed he found the quiet more agreeable and respected his feelings. But why did she need dialogue in such a beautiful place? The scenery was breathtaking. From what she could discern they were still well-above sea level yet not quite in the mountains, the smoking cone of Mt Peleé still visible through the trees upon some of the higher ridges, forming an angry, fuming anthill in the distance; the image made her titter. Blooming wildflowers and lush greens surrounded her and every so often, when their path would take a turn, she'd catch a glimpse of a river lazily meandering through the landscape.

An unbidden idea came to her at the sight of the serene, wending body of water. She surveyed it discreetly from her periphery to avoid drawing attention to herself. It wouldn't do to be exposed, Erik was by nature suspicious and as he was so fond of pointing out, she was a ghastly liar. The river looked as though it would serve her designs quite well. Not too deep; not without tree cover; not too wide; not too fast-moving. So very inviting... Yes, it would suffice nicely. Christine smiled at the low-hanging sun; it appeared fate was on her side.

Time to set her plan into motion.

"Can we camp here for the night?"

"The river is too exposed. We would do better to set up camp within the jungle."

Christine let out out a sigh throwing a last longing glance at the river. Well, there would be nothing for it now. Erik's word was law and arguing with him never begot anything but frustration, tears, and more fighting. It _was_ a nice dream, though. Lost in thoughts and self-pity as she was she didn't realize she was under scrutiny.

"You wish to be near the river." He was frowning, she could tell by the draw of his forehead and the taut pull of his lips.

"Yes, but if it's unsafe,"

"Had yesterday's encounter not happened I would have fewer qualms, but presently—"

"I understand," She smiled gratefully despite her disappointment, touched that he even deigned to consider her wants. It was not his fault, it was simply the nature of their current existence.

" _Perhaps..._ " he tapered off, evidently working some problem in his mind and quickly reaching a solution.

"The trees should provide the requisite cover, however we cannot have a fire and you must stay within our encampment. That is _not_ a request. At all times your whereabouts need be accounted for, even if you must ... _attend_ to your needs, you are to inform me beforehand. Are my terms clear?" She nodded in agreement, surprised at the outcome, prepared to turn away when his hand shot out and latched onto her shoulder.

"I _do_ hope so. I will not be made a fool of, young Daaé." The fire blazing within his eyes was more than enough to give her pause. Fleetingly she reconsidered, contemplating if her scheme was worth risking his wrath and deciding it was - although she _did_ feel a pang of regret for her forthcoming deception. Here he was attempting to be kind and she sought to take advantage of his goodness. She thought of simply being honest but knew he'd never grant her permission. And, Christine frankly mulled over whether or not she was unwise.

Erik took responsibility for setting up camp, letting her assume his gesture was altruistic; he doubted she would react favorably to his _actual_ motives. No matter, she need never know. So he allowed her to go off - within sight, _of course_ \- and sketch or take plant clippings or whatever suited her fancy and occupied her time. Now, as he finished setting the last of the traps, he sought her out, finding her upon a grassy knoll to the northwest.

She sat motionless between the trees, gaze trained skyward, just _watching_. With a roll of his eyes he mused if _all_ young girls were this vapid.

"What _is_ it?" Her whisper was something of awe; the undiluted amazement written on her pretty features calling to mind a disciple witnessing a miracle. She pointed off into the distance where a flickering blue glow illuminated the clouds crowning Mt Peleé, the mountain's divinity on display before her subjects, both reminder and warning of her preeminence. Erik seated himself beside her, his eyes following her outstretched arm.

"I could not say with any certainty, volcanoes are not my field of expertise."

An impish grin flitted across her face and she cast him a taunting look. "Has a subject of which _you_ have no knowledge at _last_ been discovered?"

"I never professed complete ignorance but instead admitted my inferences _could_ be wrong." he grumbled.

"So my lord _does_ know then?" Erik ignored the quip and her usage of that infernal moniker; assuring himself that her teasing, though annoying, _was_ better than the alternative.

"What you see is the result of volcanic gases igniting with the crater, most likely sulfur."

"I thought your lordship was unlearned on matters of volcanology." His eyes narrowed. He was sorely tempted to walk away without another word on the matter but something in her saucy ribbing appealed to him despite his initial aversion. God knows what or why. If she were _anyone_ else— Christ, he had spent too long in her company. What was happening? What was he becoming? Jokes, banter, smiles? None of these things could be heretofore associated with him nor would one who knew him link anything flippant with Erik. Yet here he was engaging in casual repartee with her, for all-purposes resembling an imbecile, and ... _not_ minding, in all honesty.

 _Doomed_.

Yes, he was undeniably doomed. No recourse now but to stand tall upon the deck of the sinking ship.

"...And the little princess is evidently oblivious in matters of general science. The combustion of gases, be they volcanic or not, falls within the realm of chemistry."

Therein ensued a pause, a long, staring quiescence punctuated by occasional blinking, lasting seemingly forever; Erik wondered if he should not have spoken. Then, a cheeky guffaw tore abruptly from her lips and she dissolved into a fit of giggles. He studied her for some time unsure of what to say or do, obtusely waiting for a cue of some kind. Until, compelled by the infectious, melodious lilt of her laughter he too let out a small chuckle, offering her the rarity of his genuine smile. Christine leaned into him, gasping for breath, settling her head upon his shoulder. Again he said nothing, freezing on the spot as if he had locked eyes with Medusa.

What a funny, dreadfully uncomfortable thing physical contact was for one unused to it, his body at first dithering between panic and acceptance. Eventually he chose the latter. Naturally, she had meant no harm by it; still that made it no less alien to him. It wasn't even the contact itself that he found so odd, but rather the fact that she should solicit it from him; the foremost question being, _why?_ Why did she want the touch of a monster, of a murderer? _That_ was what he couldn't make sense of and _that_ was the cause of his hesitancy.

This was strange; this was unfamiliar.

Reluctantly he remained, making no effort to retreat, softening ever-so-slightly with the pressure, her gentle sighs a relaxing salve for tense muscles. Soon he had surrendered almost completely to her wiles, a voice within urged him to loop an arm about her waist and hold her. He didn't. The feeling was bizarre enough without adding unnecessary complications.

"Why are they blue?" she asked in dreamy reference to the light dancing brashly atop the volcano.

"When burned sulfur produces a vivid blue flame."

"And sulfur is commonly emitted by volcanoes?"

"Precisely."

Christine sighed contentedly. "It _is_ beautiful, don't you think? _Sublime_ , really."

 _And_ instantly the world came crashing and burning to the ground, its downfall caused by a mere eight words.

Weighted words, laden with covert implications. Words stolen from a fantasy. Had she not said something similar in his dream? The same dream in which _they..._ At once his head was flooded with images, scandalous, obscene images; images that were exhilarating and alluring and _wrong_ , so very wrong. God, what was the matter with him? He rose with sudden haste, snapping at her to get to bed before striding off and thanking Providence that his conscious mind could not imagine her in anything but menswear. Perhaps he would rely upon the merciful dreamless effects of one of his sleeping decoctions tonight. Yes, best not risk another descent into hell.

Now, if only there were some brew to remedy whatever depravity assailed his brain...

* * *

 **Oh dear, poor Erik looks to be in for a rude awakening, or, at least an awakening of some type.**

 **A/N: Curare is a general name for several plant-based alkaloid poisons used by the indigenous South American people for hunting. You know, poison arrows? _Not_ the kind derived from poison dart frogs (that's batrachotoxin). Unsurprisingly a majority poisons cause lasting and irreversible damage to the body, even if the person survives or takes an antidote. This is _not_ the case with curare. Since it is targets a very specific type of acetylcholine receptor its effect is simple: paralysis of the skeletal muscles (don't worry, I won't go into the detailed chemistry of it lol). Death is caused by asphyxiation if the dosage is sufficient. _However_ , this too is negligible if the victim is sustained with artificial respiration until the effects wear off. Despite it inducing paralysis, it does nothing to block pain receptors or consciousness, which makes it an ideal choice for young Erik's torturous pursuits. And since it must be administered p** **arenterally (injected or infused) there would be no need for forcing someone to ingest it nor much of a risk for accidental poisoning via handling it.  
**

 **On another note, the blue flames atop Mount Peleé _did_ actually occur on May 6th 1902. _Yes,_ it _is_ a real phenomenon and there are several awesome pictures of it on Nat Geo (look them up, they're really freaky) and _yes_ it is caused by burning sulfur. **

**So, there's your science lesson for the day. :)**


	16. A Goddess naked to thy view exposed

**A/N: Sorry, I would have updated Sunday night but I got bitten by a spider and had to go to the ER when it swelled up to the size of an egg. I'm all right now _and_ my arm is no longer in danger of falling off, which means more updates!  
**

 **Anyways, remember that lovely little rating? It applies to this chapter x10.  
**

 **And a shout-out to everybody who reviewed, _especially_ Amelia Mariee for her astute guess. Am I that predictable? **

**One final note: The deadly 1902 eruption of Mount Peleé occurred on May 8th. _Technically_ the following chapter takes place on the 7th (as it is after midnight). I wanted to avoid confusion which means the next chapter will go down on May 7th, leaving our characters with about a day to get off the island before the big boom.  
**

* * *

 **6 May - Night 10  
**

Erik's eyes slowly opened, the loitering aftereffects of drugged sleep still clouding his mind, unsure what had roused him or, indeed, how he had been awakened in the first place. His sleeping decoctions were, if nothing else, effective and he had been sure to take an ample dose, not so much so as to render him comatose but enough to chase away the dreams; so, by all intents and purposes, he shouldn't be awake and yet somehow he _was_. He had, however, always been a light sleeper - when he _chose_ to sleep, that is - catapulted into alertness by the slightest noise or change.

Perhaps the responsibility then lay with the vibrant chorus of nature—of insect and rushing water—or a shift in wind, or maybe still the absence of gentle breathing and aura of warmth next to him...

 _Absence?_ a voice reiterated stupidly.

He jolted upright to find Christine's bedroll empty, just as he had feared. Not pausing to process the magnitude of the situation and uttering a few choicest oaths he grabbed his weapons, yanking his boots on and creeping off into the nearly moonless night.

 _Damn that infernal girl!_

Had he not explicitly forbade her from leaving the campsite? Had he not made her swear to his conditions? Had he not offered these terms—against his better judgment—so she could camp near the blasted river that entranced her so?

She had agreed!

Agreed to every bloody one!

And he, like an asinine dolt, had taken her for her word. He had given her the benefit of the doubt in an attempt to be more considerate, to show her he wasn't the glowering, churlish beast she thought him to be, and she had taken advantage of him! For what purpose? This was what he could not deduce and it only stoked his budding ire, first that he had been so easily tricked and second that he had no idea _to what_ end.

One would think after what had happened the day before last she'd have learnt her lesson and dispensed with silly notions of nighttime strolls and whatever momentary frivolity caught her fancy, especially after his warning. His warning. _That_ was another thing! It wasn't as if she was unclear on the ramifications of her transgression - she knew him the type to seldom, if _ever_ , give warnings. Most would prostrate themselves before him kissing his feet for such benevolence. But apparently not this girl, _not Christine_. No, she was determined to inconvenience him to the limits of possibility; she was determined to do what she wanted consequences be damned. He wavered between believing this unflappable contumacy a blessing or a curse and after ten minutes without a trace of her, he preeminently settled on the latter.

 _Damn her, damn her, damn her!_ Oh, when he caught her—

 _When_ not _if_ , for he would catch her. _  
_

 _When he caught her_ he might just put her over his knee like the naughty child she so insistently portrayed!

It was around that same time, as he searched for some evidence of her whereabouts, that the horrible thoughts began. What if she had been captured? No, surely he would have heard the struggle. If nothing else, he knew she was not the sort to surrender meekly; Erik had realized that much the very first time they met. With one prospect excluded others were quick to fill the void.

What if she had accidentally stumbled upon one of his traps? _T_ _hat_ was a more likely scenario. While none were immediately fatal, they were far from benign. If she got stuck in one... _Oh God._ The image of her scared, struggling, caught like an animal in a snare quickened his pace. With an calming shake of his head he pushed the fear from mind and concentrated harder. Surely there must be a sign. Distracted as he was Erik quite nearly missed the faint hint of footprints in the mud, small and shallow _and_ leading straight to the river.

 _So..._ she had gone for a midnight rendezvous on the shore?

Scalding fury quickly dissolved his antecedent worry, the fringes of his vision tinted red. Not only had she disobeyed him yet again, flouted his authority without the slightest deliberation, but she had done so with without good reason. Perhaps he might have let slide a halfway plausible pretext, something to do with matters personal or the like. A riverbank ramble absolutely did not count as urgent or necessary.

Did he have to chain her to him each night? Was she not the slightest bit trustworthy? Erik prided himself on never making the same mistake twice and he'd certainly never again trust her. For one who believed his temper frightening she was proving quite adept at continuously inciting it.

His rage bubbled with each menacing stride down the path and not solely owing to his aggravation. This was predominantly about her, more than it was about his wounded ego. The risks of such blatant carelessness were real and obvious and well-armed! And if anything befell her— the thought terrified him in all honesty, and he couldn't recall the last time he had been afraid - concerning the welfare of another this answer was an unequivocal _never,_ and from fear soon sprang resentment and loathing.

How _dare_ she endanger herself? How dare she have so little respect for him, for herself? How dare she be so naïve to think she could wander about as she damn well pleased, as if she were on her father's estate? She would live to regret this! Yes, Christine would _definitely_ regret it. He was nobody's fool. Hadn't he made that abundantly clear? He just hoped he could stop himself from strangling her because at present it did _not_ look promising. Erik could hear her on the other side of the bushes, singing, just as she had been doing the last time she slithered away from him. The cheek of that girl! A thousand curses and reprimands danced on the tip of his tongue - whips waiting to lash and bite into her heinous pride and unassailable insipidness - as he parted the foliage.

And instantly _every_ _single_ _word_ died.

There she was, all right. Safe and sound, her alabaster flesh a stark contrast to the dark water in which she stood. Her wet curls—loose and free—lightly brushed her shoulders, a dark curtain swaying to and fro with every little movement. She stretched upwards on her toes arching into a shallow dive, and his mouth fell open to glimpse her bare derrière, taut and round, a dimple above each cheek.

 _Completely bare._

Good God, she was _naked_!

For a timeless interlude his brilliant, restive, ever-active mind halted in one, lurching screech uncoupling consciousness from body, and all Erik could do was stare dumbstruck. In that moment, totally robbed of all wits, he was heartrendingly vulnerable; had a foe chosen to attack he would have been easily vanquished. Mercifully for him there was no such enemy - _not corporeally_ , at least.

Earlier he had been afraid of imagining her in that thrice-damned chemise but it had never occurred to him to envision her in dishabille, the part of his brain lusting after her contained, isolated and banished to the darkest fathoms its connection with the rest of his thoughts severed.

Then, with the dallying leisure of a heating incandescent bulb the realization finally hit him, an arcing current between two contacts. _She was naked, unclothed, exposed._ A stupid, dozy blink and a spark kindled an inferno of longing that tore through his every limb; his breeches tightened uncomfortably, a byproduct of the scorching want that at last made itself known. Uncovered women, bare and unabashed, he had seen before. Countless times since boyhood he had _seen._ Nudity both real and contrived, in textbooks, drawings, and the photographs the men in his unit thought so artfully hidden; exotic, native island women proud and uninhibited by stodgy western morality; brazen harbor town whores; odalisques in the Shah's harem who flaunted themselves, batting coy, seductive eyes and making love freely within easy sight, and his own experiences, the handful of dalliances he had enjoyed the world over. Some had inspired, others failed to excite, but _this ... She_ was something else entirely.

Something pure, virginal, beautiful; an angel among mortals if ever there was.

Decorum demanded he look away. That, by beholding her he had violated some sacred commandment, but he was incapable of tearing his eyes from the sylphlike form that gradually arose from the water. She had to be nymph or fairy. There was no other explanation for such exquisiteness.

Dim starlight bathed her in a feeble glow as she emerged, further enhancing the similarity. Droplets of water cascaded off her hair—straight and raven when immersed—glinting like diamonds as they ran down her body, down two small, firm breasts—each adorned with a pert, chill-hardened pink nipple— _down_ her slim stomach, pooling in her delicate navel, as if to linger in worship of her loveliness, before rejoining the river.

 _Not enough stars_ , there were not enough stars to pay homage to this goddess.

Never did Erik think he'd ever bemoan a lack of illumination but here he was, bedamning the blackness, reviling the pitiful sliver that dared call itself a moon. He hadn't given much credence to his strange ability to see in the dark, honed to perfection during his time in India, but now this gift seemed paltry, inadequate for a proper inspection. It was somehow vulgar, like viewing the work of a Renaissance Master through field glasses.

 _As well it should be!_ something chided internally and he knew it to be true. This wasn't proper. He should avert his gaze to preserve her modesty, he had already seen far too much. Yet he could not physically bring himself to do it. If he closed his eyes there she remained etched into his eyelids, forever branded.

 _Bewitched, besotted,_ and _hopelessly lost,_ Actaeon impudently continued to watch Diana.

Mayhap this was all a dream. It _must_ be! Otherwise how could one such as he ever hope to look upon such unmarred beauty and not incur the wrath of the gods? Erik _was_ Actaeon, he _was_ Gyges, gazing upon that to which he had no right. Still he persisted, entirely aware of the repercussions of his violation but helpless to stop. The breeze carried with it the faint, lilting melody of whatever sweet tune she hummed whilst wringing the moisture from her hair; she gathered it over her left shoulder, eyes closed and lips curved into a serene smile, exposing more of herself to his ravenous view. He could see an elegant neck, dainty collarbones, and - his heartbeat stuttered - _just_ discern the dark thatch of curls shielding her femininity.

His mouth watered at this new sight, hungered to learn the secrets concealed half by water, half by nature.

What he would give but for a _taste_...

Every inch of him throbbed and flamed with smothering heat that brought an automatic hand to his collar; but there was no collar to loosen. Both control _and_ sanity were fast slipping from his grasp. Each motion, each blissful sigh, each rapturous expression a direct attack on his restraint. He fought wildly to keep himself composed, to keep himself from rashness, to keep himself from tearing off his own clothes _and burying himself deep within..._

 _Crack._

 _Shit!_

In his reckless disregard he had snapped a branch underfoot. Eyes of seductive midnight shot up to the bank, _right_ to the spot where he hid. Ice ran through his veins where seconds ago it had been flame. Erik chastened himself with the most severe maledictions he could summon, positive he'd be detected. And what justification could possibly be given for such a heinous offense?

Thankfully he was spared being caught in _flagrante delicto_ when Christine resumed bathing, apparently concluding the noise to be thought up.

It was the impetus needed to finally break her spell; to his chagrin the thrill of near-discovery only enhanced the yearning that coursed sweltering and viscous through him. He hadn't any idea how he'd manage to contain himself once she returned nor was he quite sure he wished to.

She didn't _deserve_ a gentleman after what she put him through; she begged to be ravished.

Oh, how easy it would be! A simple seduction, the conquest effortless. Erik was no Don Juan, but neither was he oblivious; he witnessed her reaction from days ago when she had been cornered, observed the telltale haze of giddy want in her eyes, noted the way her body unwittingly responded.

He _saw_ \- and until now - ignored and demurred. It would not take much to have her, _no_ , with a few soft words and feather-light touches she would be _his._ The knowledge was paraffin thrown onto a raging wildfire, the temptation _maddening._

Whichever path he chose, _something_ would change tonight.

 **o o o**

Imbued with wicked, smug satisfaction Christine sneaked back into camp refreshed after her late night diversion; her own dirty little secret. _He_ would not be the wiser. True, she felt a shade of remorse but saw no other alternative. Days of sweating and hiking coupled with the sooty air had lent her the appearance of a chimney sweep - nothing short of torture for one so fastidious as she - and from the moment she laid eyes on the river she could think of nothing else. She didn't bother asking Erik, he'd have never consented. Instead she hatched a clever plan, one which seemed blessed from the outset: his agreement to camp near the water, his taking a sleeping draught, the lack of moon... All had come together beautifully, rewarding her with a long-overdue wash; a far-cry from a proper bath but invigorating all the same. It seemed her companion was _not_ the only one adept at scheming. Maybe she _had_ done well to learn a thing or two from him.

Though now, retracing her path through the darkness, clad in a provisional shift of Erik's shirt, her previous boldness faded slightly. What if he awoke and questioned her, wondering at why her hair and clothes were wet? Inventing an excuse was futile, he'd see through it immediately; perhaps the better strategy was to have an apology at the ready?

This entire venture was foolhardy! She was _destined_ to be found out. No, she _could_ do this! After all, she had made it this far. A deep breath and light laugh ousted the remainder of poisonous negativity from her mind. He had been sound asleep when she departed and should be for hours to come; she knew the strength of his brew from experience. And everything would be dry come morning, besides. Until then all she needed to do was hide in her bedroll. It was _perfect_ and thus far had come together without a hitch; she was _so_ close to success. What could go wrong at this late stage? Smirking at her own astuteness Christine sauntered back into their camp.

 _"Hello, Christine..."_

Nine other times he had spoken her name, three in dreams, six in reality. Each one filled her with a sort of flustered titillation. This marked the tenth occasion and all she felt was dread. A heart that had once skipped at _that_ voice now plummeted. Christine looked up to see Erik leaning leisurely against a tree, long legs stretched out in front of him. She swallowed thickly, conceit melting into panic. Why had she ever presumed to think she could trick him? Expression laden with the guilt of a child caught with a hand in the biscuit tin, she turned to face him and her inevitable condemnation.

" _So_ nice to see you have decided to return..." he purred silkily, devilishly. It was not the blustering roar she had been expecting. Far from it, in fact; she was taken aback.

"O-Oh, you're awake. _I-I was just..._ " she stammered, grappling for _something_ suitable despite it being fruitless. The game was patently up, her deception exposed. He knew it; she knew it.

His gaze flicked over her rapidly, sweeping from her damp hair - again forming curls - to her spotless skin, to the sodden white linen garment that hung about her, nearly transparent and obviously not her size. It was _his_ , the shirt he had gifted _Christopher_ when the lad fell in the mud. Erik continued his appraisal trying not to dwell on the fact that his shirt clung to her curves and was the sole thing covering her nakedness; she wore no trousers, nothing but his damn shirt. And to think, mere hours ago, imagining her in menswear had been his _one_ saving grace; now it mattered not what she wore (or didn't wear). Once more his thoughts plunged back into the abyss of untamed lust, the blaze reigniting in his loins and chest. Languidly he pushed away from the tree and walked towards her, still debating his next course of action. To take her would be _so_ easy; fantasy was well-within his grasp. Dare he reach out?

She backed up slightly, instinctively upon seeing his approach. He had not flown into a temper as she was positive he would. Instead he studied her, strangely quiet, his expression inscrutable. It made her incredibly uneasy. Whatever was on his mind seemed somehow darker and more dangerous than anger. Christine tensed, realizing too-late there was nowhere to run, she was trapped and he drew ever nearer. He the wolf and she his prey. What would be her sentence? A slap? A spanking? Being bound and gagged? Flogging? Regardless of what punishment awaited she had never been less eager to find something out.

 _Oh_ , why had she been so stupid?

Closer and closer he stalked, a paradigm of dark, mysterious allure, of potent masculinity and intoxicating roguish charm. Erik's usual aura of power - now statically charged - pulled at her, beseeching her surrender, to _what_ she could not comprehend. Her head felt heavy, her breath leaden, and, as he stood before her, Christine was inundated by some unknown, outré emotion she couldn't place. His eyes were a contrast: churning stormy blue that seemed to glow silver in the starlight.

Good Lord, she was outmatched and ill-equipped!

Gently he pulled a wet curl between his fingers and released. It tickled her skin sending a chill through her, as did _all_ contact he initiated. "Did you enjoy your bath?"

" _B-B-Bath..._ " The word sounded borrowed. "H-How did you—?" Clarity slammed into her abruptly. The queer sensation that had needled her skin, the rush accompanying mischief, _the snap of a twig_. Had he spied upon her? Magnificent anger swelled within her, boiling fiercely alongside outrage, violation, and... _gratification?_ The initial surge receded shortly thereafter leaving anticipation in its wake. Would he admit it if he had played voyeur? What would happen if he did? Would he laugh at her skinny, boyish figure? If not, would he kiss her or do something _more_? Moreover, _why_ was she even entertaining such obscene thoughts? It wasn't as though she desired Erik. No, not at all! He was irritating; he was a bully; he was a scoundrel; he _was_...

He scrutinized her in pensive inspection giving nothing away. Meanwhile her chest felt as though it was being compressed her lungs readying for a building scream of frustration.

"You're sopping and indecent. What else would you have been doing?" His tone was accusatory, patronizing.

"I am _not_ indecent."

"No?" he challenged.

One hand froze in the air above her breast, just visible through the fabric, his fingers spreading, their tips arching in a pantomime of what he desperately wanted. He could almost feel the fluttering thrum of her heartbeat against his palm, _almost_ feel the solid but yielding globe in hand. Three inches more and it would become real. Why not do it? Why shouldn't he capitulate? Didn't he merit some remuneration for all he had done for her? Surely she realized she was in his debt, surely what he desired was not _too_ much to ask. How many times had he saved her now? She owed him a _life_ (many times over) wasn't this a much better compromise, a life for her body? It needn't even be a sacrifice on her part; he was a generous lover. Erik curled his fingers into a fist and dropped his hand, sighing mightily.

She registered his intent after the fact and her face glowed red; the thought of a man— _of Erik_ —touching her in such a way was dizzying and not in a negative sense. What was the opposite of negative again?

"Go to bed, Christine."

"But, I—"

"I said go to bed, goddamn you!" he snarled, "For _once_ in your fucking life, _LISTEN!_ "

With a yelp she dove into the tent, unwilling to tempt her good fortune; he seemed to have forgotten about her transgression and she was smarter than to remind him. Besides, she needed time to process what had happened, what she had felt, the heat spreading below her navel...

 **o o o**

Erik paced round the encampment for hours, imbibing and thinking and trying to compose himself. The shovel had not been all he had taken from the farmhouse that first morning, upon returning it he had found an unopened bottle of rum. A bottle he now made liberal avail of as he mulled over these strange, novel emotions. Emotions which were heretofore nonexistent. Or, perhaps, dormant was a better descriptor.

Christ, he could not even begin to name them! Illusions, architecture, chemistry, music, killing... those were fields which came naturally, unbidden to his skillful fingers and sharp mind. But _this_ was wholly alien. It was both disgusting and invigorating. There was lust, desire, want, that primal urge which cloaked herself in so many names, all in reference to the same thing; he recognized that one.

 _Desire her?_

Of course he bloody desired her! _That_ was as clear as the damn Caribbean waters. Many things though he was, Erik was still a man and she a woman. An achingly beautiful woman whom he had just seen _au naturel_. It would be unnatural if he didn't covet her. Yes, he wanted Christine but what did he want _with_ her? Under lust's red satin wrapper was something _else._ That godforsaken, infuriating enigma of a feeling!

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph he was going crazy! But here was another keen question... Why was he pondering over such petty, ridiculous things when the only thing on his mind was _her,_ when he might wither if he did not seek the medicinal effects of her body? He needed her, needed her urgently. God, he would die! This was the terminus, he could suffer no longer with this wretched thirst. Either he would end it or meet his end.

Then, yet another rebuttal stayed his heedlessness. Why was this suddenly such torture?

A fair and most pertinent inquiry. He had known Christine's identity for days and her beauty was no secret, it hadn't altered the way he thought of her. Dimly he had registered that Christopher was actually Christine, that he was escorting not some absurd little dandy but an attractive, alluring woman. While his dream elucidated that in full, nothing marked had changed. It was as if he viewed her from behind thick, distorting glass. Although she was a woman he still regarded her as that plucky boy with her overlarge clothes, still thought of her as Christopher deep-down. True, his fondness _had_ deepened and her touches now made him uncomfortable. But they still argued and clashed and fought. However, tonight, when all had been laid bare before his eyes, the glass shattered and he could see with startling lucidity. And he _yearned_ for what he saw.

Oh, but he _had_ known all along, hadn't he?

The dream from the other night played within his head, mocking him and his laughable denial. In his usual arrogance he had brushed aside the disturbing hints of attraction gingerly taking root. He continued to uphold the misconception that dreams were nothing more than random, unrestrained images. Erik had ignored these omens and here he was, frantically lusting like a dog after a bitch in heat. _He_ had orchestrated his own misery, not Christine, not anyone but...

"Erik?"

That soothing angel's voice, a celestial balm for the soul, a cool drink when previously there was none, at the same time belonged to a temptress, a succubus seeking to drain his resolve until he was broken and shaking. Could he ever be free of her?

"Why are you not in bed? _Did I not—_ "

"I tried to sleep but your pacing and muttering made it impossible." There was no reprimand in her statement, only honesty.

"I apologize for keeping you awake then. I shall take my musings elsewhere."

She sat down on the ground dragging him down beside her before he could resist, the liquor having delayed his reactions - why had he partaken? - and placed a hand on his shoulder, soothing; her voice was edged with concern. "What is the matter?"

He wanted to _show_ her, to grab her and kiss her furiously until she understood, to make her regret ever asking, to make her _burn_ as he did.

"Nothing of importance."

"Do you remember those times when you so gleefully informed _me_ how wretched I am at lying?"

"I am still a spot better than you, young Daaé."

"Whatever is weighing upon you mutes your natural talent. You may feel better if you were to unburden your—"

"I told you it is _nothing!_ Now, return to bed!" Erik rose unsteadily, fleeing at a brisk clip, not bothering check if she had obeyed; he didn't care. He _had_ to escape before he did something unforgivable.

"Erik, please?" She had followed him, the daft girl; he noticed she still wore no trousers, only that goddamn shirt. Was she complicit? Did she know how she presently tortured him? Her hand was again resting on his shoulder. He was torn between flinging it off and forcing her to feel _exactly_ what she did to him. Instead he rounded on her trapping her between himself and a tree in much the same position they had been in before, when he first saw evidence of her interest, when he learned how simple it would be to have her. This time his action did nothing to intimidate for she kept talking as if nothing had happened.

But _how_ could he have forgotten? She was no longer afraid of him, the fool! How could she be after that night? Following that outburst, his usual temper was like the squeak of a mouse.

"After _everything_ we've been through..." she pressed doggedly, "You know, I've lost count of how many times we've been in peril, of how many times we've needed one another. We each know the others darkest secret. Did you exploit me after learning mine? Did I run from yours? After all that I thought we had become, _well,_ friends." He stared at Christine, stunned by the heartfelt appeal; she managed a sheepish smile.

 _Friends?_ Christine thought them _friends._ How innocent, how adorable, how _stupid_ on her part. She was looking directly at him now as if in a trance, expectant and timid.

There he hovered, stuck both in and out of time, between wrong and right; her eyelids were heavy, her chin was tipped. She wanted this as much as he, or thought she did. Nothing stopped him from taking what he desired, newly unearthed but no less potent than if he had known his entire life. His fingers traced the velvet skin of her cheek, skimming her lips in an effort to sate himself; it had the opposite effect, adding _not_ deducting from his fierce passion. Erik inspected every detail of her face, from the full lips, to the pert nose, to the perfectly shaped brows, to the long, dark lashes currently brushing her skin, his fingers tenderly mapping the beauty his eyesight captured. Soon it was no longer enough to simply look, he _needed_ to touch.

Christine was trembling. He perceived every minute shiver through his fingertips, the amplitude increasing as it travelled up his arm, shaking him to the core until his whole being seemed to vibrate with longing. Erik moved closer, the warmth of her lips calling to him, guiding him like a will-o'-wisp.

A man could take three things from a woman: her kiss, her heart, and her innocence. Each of them could only ever belong to he who lay first claim. The thought of _another_ , some simpering fine-featured boy _stealing_ such firsts from her stirred painful outrage. And suddenly _he_ wanted to be _that_ man, wanted to possess every part of her—kiss, body, and soul—and mark them indelibly and forevermore with his name.

 _Inexcusable._ _Impossible._ He could not; they could _never_...

It could never be anything more than a liaison, but so too would it be an outright lie if he denied temptation. Christ, he never knew anything so damn tempting! The thought of her sweet moans and sighs as she lay under him, quaking legs wrapped about his waist formed an endless tessellation in his mind; every filthy depravity inhabiting his subconscious flashed before him, taking advantage of the lapse in his defenses to finally come to light. _Good God._ She would bend as willingly to his touch as any instrument he held and produce music far lovelier.

 _All_ he need do was lean in.

Yet he could not, _would not_ defile this innocent creature. Damn it all to hell! The urge to punch, shatter, and break every object within reach was fast overcoming him.

"Friends?" He shook his head, withdrawing. Of all the times for his conscience to intervene! His hands balled into fists against the scratchy bark, shredding the skin on his knuckles; the sting was refreshing. "I am your escort, nothing more."

"I _see_. I suppose that was too much to hope for." she muttered quietly, refusing to look at him. He was relieved for this, he couldn't bear to see the hurt in those irises that so resembled the coffee she loved.

"Your supposition was correct." he affirmed, maintaining the untruth despite the way his chest ached.

"Oh, you _infernal_ man!"

Erik had ahold of her forearm before she made it two steps. _Why_ _?_ screamed a voice, _why not just let her go?_ He knew he _should_ but couldn't bring himself to release her. "What do you want me to say, Christine?"

"I don't know! _Anything_ but your goddamn indifference!"

"Indifference?"

"Yes, _bloody_ indifference!" Christine whirled round then, jamming a finger into his chest; it was cathartic. "And don't you bother denying it, Erik Grey! You act like I am mere cargo with just as many feelings, to you I have about as much significance as a box or rucksack. After all we have been through you still don't see me as a living thing. You don't see me as a person, or if you do it's as some fanciful maiden and _not_ as a _woman_ with emotions, opinions, needs, _desires_..." She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes growing large at the unintentional disclosure.

Erik eyed her searchingly and took a step nearer, tugging her towards him.

" _What do you want from me?_ " came his agonized whisper.

He caught her at a loss, the power of speech deserted her leaving behind a frightened mute creature who could only stare artlessly. _Desires._ Christine could provide him with the literal definition but could she herself define them? Did she know what it was to hunger for someone? Could she disclose the contents which unfolded in the sanctum of dreams, the impure acts she had imagined? Could she find the terms to describe them? Did she want to?

"I ... _I_ ... _d-don't_ know."

" _Foolish girl._ " Erik spat, "You speak of things you cannot comprehend."

"Don't belittle me, you ... you _bastard_! You think inexperience precludes me from having the same feelings and urges as any other person? It doesn't. Maybe if you were to _look_ at me, to _speak_ to me, as a woman instead of a child you could see that. Perhaps you've forgotten how since you don't seem to have any of your own. Can you _even_ feel, Erik? Do you have wants, needs, or desires? Or is your heart just an icy desert, desolate, empty and frigid, as cold as your voice?" Christine did not even recognize the words flowing from her mouth anymore. All she knew was _anger._ Anger, frustration, and that godforsaken annoying emotion that overshadowed _all_ interaction with him as of late. "Well? Lord! Say _something!_ "

Within his gaze a more ominous entity unfurled. During her rant, she had accidentally overstepped her boundaries. She gulped, searching for a place to run; he smiled tauntingly at her panic. "You want to know of _my_ desires then, my sweet, innocent princess?" His tone was low, barely audible; a deadly rumble. "Do you want to hear that you set my very blood aflame, that your touch alights my skin, that you ensnare my every sense? Do you want to hear how I burn for you, how I long for you?" He shook her hard. "Is _that_ what you wanted to hear from me? _Well?!_ Or, do you seek to hear my confession of sin?"

" _W-What?_ "

"You see, my dear, I _am_ Actaeon. But rather than being discovered and cursed, I watched Diana shamelessly."

"Y-Y-You..."

Shock illuminated her features; his grin turned sinister. "You are not as clever as you think; _of course_ I noticed you missing. Did you believe you'd get away with it, that you could mislead me?" Erik delighted in the way her expression fell. "Oh, _yes._ I awoke and tracked you to the river, prepared to drag you back by your hair if need be, but there you were... _Never_ can I forget the sight of you, it is eternally etched into my brain and will remain until my last breath. Do you really want to know what you do to me, Christine?"

Her face went crimson from forehead to chin, her hand reflexively sailing towards his cheek. Even still she couldn't help the way her pulse quickened at his chosen allusion. What was wrong with her? Here a man she barely knew had just admitted to spying as she bathed, to violating her privacy and looking upon her most secret places, and she was not scandalized, but thrilled? He leered nastily, intercepting her slap.

" _Y-You s-swine!_ "

"No." Erik spun her and brought her struggling frame against his, strong arms crossing over her chest and holding her motionless. "Those who so cavalierly toy with fire _will_ get burnt." He pressed himself into her backside, savoring the gasp when she felt the extent to which she affected him, his jaw clenching at the feel of her warm, supple curves.

She shuddered, seized by that nameless thing. It was suffocating, or perhaps he was squeezing the air from her lungs. The hardness at her back dominated her focus, insistent and bold; her ears buzzed, pressure pushing against her skull, trying to get out; in her stomach there was a queasy shifting threatening to swallow her whole and beneath that a tingling, trickling warmth. Intense, powerful, and frightening but somehow _right_.

"Do not lecture me on appetites, on emotions. You've no _idea_ what I feel, Christine, what I _crave_ in the dark, lonely night. You cannot fathom the unspeakable things I wish to do to you. I want you with _every_ fibre of my being. I could take you, have you again and again and still it would not be enough to sate me."

Erik shifted, holding her with one arm while the other hand grasped her bare thigh; she no longer fought him. Christine nearly jumped out of her skin at the forbidden contact, almost fainting as his hand began to glide upwards methodically _._

"I could show you pleasure." he murmured feverishly, his voice raw and strained, so unlike itself, "I could chart your body's every secret; I could make you slump boneless in my arms with one hand." The referenced appendage slid ever nearer to that place between her legs, that place which throbbed and ached with a need she didn't recognize, and stopped just short. "But it is willpower alone that stops me. It is control that you mistake for indifference and you should be damn grateful for the former; it is the _only_ barrier between us, the _sole_ thing keeping me in check."

His lips brushed her ear in the softest of caresses. " _So now you know the truth._ " he breathed as he pushed her away.

"Go back to bed, Christine."

Christine stumbled unexpectedly forward on clumsy, shaking legs. When she regained sense she called out to him, not knowing her purpose but wanting him there all the same. Only silence replied. Erik was already long-gone, disappeared into the night like a thrice-damned phantom; the confusing tempest that still raged within, weighted words, the faint odor of spirits, and _her_ all he left behind, the only evidence of his having ever existed.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm really curious to know thoughts/reactions to this chapter. Was it too much and too soon? Did I capture Erik's internal conflict and Christine's awakening sexuality? This was one of the first things I wrote for the story back when it was just a jumble of non-sequential scenarios; I kept it because I just really liked the way it turned out and couldn't wait to post it.**

 ***For those who are unfamiliar: the myth of Actaeon and Diana comes from Ovid's _Metamorphoses_. In it a young hunter named Actaeon (a mortal) stumbles upon Diana, goddess of the hunt, whilst she is bathing naked in a spring. He's spotted by one of her nymph attendants and as punishment, Diana splashes Actaeon turning him into a deer. Unable to speak, he runs away and is eventually killed by his own hounds who don't recognize him. **

***The tale of Gyges of Lydia is a little different; there are several versions but I chose to go with Herodotus's account because I found it the most applicable. Basically the King of Lydia, Candaules, brags to one of his guards, Gyges, that his Queen is the most beautiful woman _ever_. He encourages Gyges to sneak into her room at night and watch from the shadows as she undresses so that he can witness the true magnitude of her beauty. Gyges does this reluctantly and is caught by the Queen, who gives him two choices: kill the King for dishonoring her and supplant him OR be put to death. I think you can guess which option he goes with. ;) **


	17. Penultimate Day

**A/N: And here we are, the day before the big eruption. Don't expect the brooding to lighten up just yet, especially after the previous chapter. I promise the one following this will be mostly action (of varying types).  
**

 **As usual I meant to post this sooner but kept having things come up; so far this is the longest chapter in terms of word count and I kept editing and reediting.**

 **I decided to include a take on a beloved scene from Kay. You'll know the one when you come to that part.**

 **Anyways, let's see where today finds everybody...**

* * *

 **One Day Prior - 6 May  
**

"Form a line! Come on now, one line, if you please! Have your boarding information at the ready!"

The steamer's deck was pure and veritable chaos and the surrounding docks more so with frantic crew and passenger alike bustling this way and that. A crash rang out below followed by a string of curses hurled in French, one of the loading ropes had snapped spilling several trunks. With all the clamor and crowding it was surprising people hadn't begun scaling the sides of the vessel. Meanwhile the polite entreaties of whichever poor sod was attempting to organize pandemonium were muffled by the enormous drone. The jumble remained unmoved, a flock of sheep awaiting a collie; no line was formed.

"LADIES, GENTLEMEN! FORM A LINE, _ONE_ LINE! IF YOU DO NOT, YOU _WILL_ BE LEFT BEHIND!" There was a new voice, blaring and impatient, that rose over the din aided by a speaking-trumpet; it was the first officer. The effect was immediate: slowly the shuffling and grumbling masses congealed into some semblance of a line; not passable under military scrutiny but a marked improvement over the writhing, shouting clump it had been.

" _One line?!_ " A reedy whine broke through the noise, incredulous and shrill, like the screech of a kettle. " _Surely_ , sir, you do not mean for first class passengers to mingle with—"

"Sorry, madam, we are full to capacity and haven't the resources to separate by class." This time it was the captain who spoke, watching from the same perch as his officer, another disgruntled overseer for the rabble.

Raoul de Chagny observed the interaction from afar, lip curled. He didn't stay for the inevitable shriek or swoon that followed - these 'women of class' were all alike - and the sweltering heat of early morning coupled with a foray into bedlam had soured his disposition. This racket proved the tipping point, however; the biddy reminded him of a similar aunt he detested and a murder conviction would prove rather an _inconvenience._

Scowling, he retreated to his cabin. _Or_ what passed for one, anyway. If he had been charged with its description, he likely would have selected a word such as _cell_ or _cage_ or _box_. The space was almost ludicrously small and sparse, making his accommodations on the voyage over look palatial in comparison. In fact, his previous lodgings now seemed as if they belonged aboard the flagship of the Cunard or White Star Lines. _This_ was barely fit for transportation. Everything was rusted and grimy; the water trickling from the tap smelled stagnant and foul; the looking glass above the basin didn't appear to have been cleaned since the vessel's maiden voyage; and his cot was narrow, hard, and short, forcing him to bend his knees or turn onto his side to fit. Raoul was reasonably tall, an inch or two above average, but he shuddered to think how a man bigger than himself would fare. The poor bastard would probably have to sleep seated or hang from the ceiling like a bat! He snorted at the thought.

But he _did_ have a window - or porthole, _whatever_ it was called - and with a bit of coaxing and cursing managed to pry it open, flooding the dreary cabin with fresh air. He spared one last virulent glance at the shrinking form of Saint-Pierre, unmistakable with Mt Peleé's belching stack casting it in portentous shadow; the image looked like those dramatic American landscapes Christine fancied. What was that painter called again? Ah, _yes..._ Thomas Cole, wasn't it? Ten thousand curses upon both him _and_ that silly girl!

God, why had he ever let her persuade him to journey to Martinique?

A current of resentment pulled steadily at his insides, he had not yet quite forgiven her for abandoning him. This entire excursion was _her_ doing and had he not been afraid she'd do something rash like stowaway aboard the first ship she found, he would never have agreed to go. _Please, Raoul_ , she had pleaded in dulcet tones, _it will be extraordinary. The Caribbean is a paradise for all sorts of insects, think of how many exotic species you could add to your collection. Why, you'd be the envy of your friends._ Naturally, he had relented. Like all women she knew _just_ the thing to say, _exactly_ how to tempt; the clever chit knew his insect collection was close to his heart.

Not that he was well-versed in denying her; in fact, he indulged her entirely too often. He had spoiled her when they were children and little had changed since. Fine place it landed him! But, what could he do? Raoul loved her dearly, she was a younger sister in all but blood and name.

And now where was that sweet, little Delilah? Aboard a comfortable steamer nearly to England whilst he was being tossed about in a space barely large enough to kennel a hound. Well, he was resolved to voice his displeasure once they were reunited. Depending on how sadistic his mood, he _might_ even show her the specimens he had accumulated and preserved. _That_ would serve her right.

He should never have listened to her. Lord, did she have the smallest inclination how dull their fellows were? It was impossible to converse with a single one unless you wished to discuss plants. _T_ _hen,_ and only then, they became veritable fountains of banal information and facts, all of it about blasted flora. Some were good for a few ales but as a general whole were exceedingly mundane. The company was not _all_ bad for most of his nights were spent with the lovely Héloïse. They would talk, laugh, and simply _enjoy_ one another, after a short while she became the only thing keeping the fabric of his sanity from ripping. Raoul promptly put her from mind with a shake of his head, knowing that if he were to dwell he just might jump overboard and swim back; he'd _certainly_ be the richer for companionship and lodgings.

Alas, this was— _lamentably_ —the only way off that blasted island, passage had taken him _days_ to book. Yet despite its bleakness it was better than staying another moment at the foot of that burgeoning cataclysm.

Truthfully he hadn't thought much of Peleé until he was jounced out of bed by an awful noise four nights prior. There came a horrid split second where he believed he'd die, then the next morning there was no evidence of the terror except a fine layer of ash covering the whole of Saint-Pierre like cursed snow. Another eruption had followed the next day, not as startling as the first but in no way a source of comfort.

Everyone of importance - the mayor and purported 'experts' - had sworn up and down that these 'minor' events were perfectly normal and life went on as it had. The whole spectacle smacked of a deluded mother trying to argue her child's innocence even when confronted with proof of the contrary. No one else within their group was fazed but he always kept a wary eye on the volcano, doubting its innocuous guise with each passing day. The crux had come yesterday when a deluge of mud and water had come roaring down the old bitch's flank, destroying a sugar mill and killing all inside; a small tsunami had come shortly thereafter, inundating the lower reaches of the town.

Not an hour later Raoul went from dock to dock searching for way off this condemned land. The present found him upon one such means of salvation, tottering into the horizon. He heaved a tired sigh, inhaling robustly. At last he could rest easy. That _was_ if this decrepit, twisted heap of scrap metal could make the trip without sinking. Yet as they hit a rough patch of sea and he was flung headlong into the wall, things looked the opposite of promising.

* * *

 **7 May - Day 10**

Sleep never came for Erik that night.

At least fortune granted him _that_ small concession, _not_ that he'd have surrendered if it hadn't.

Seconds accumulated into minutes which, in turn, rolled over into hours and so on and so forth until the darkness dwindled, bleeding away like diluted ink. Erik paced all throughout this predictable march, analyzed and reflected and thought, his every one about _her._ But that was no great shock. How could he think of anything else? He had come so close to having her, to fulfilling the vulgar fantasies within his head. It would have been so uncomplicated, he _could_ have enjoyed all she had to offer, every precious treasure woman could give man _had_ his conscience not intruded.

No passage of time—large or small—could dull the longing. He wanted her as fervently as ever, maybe more. How could he bear to see her after everything he had said and done, after playing the role of brazen seducer? How could she stand to look at him, _knowing_? These questions drove him to the brink of flight and return several times before he thoroughly banished the former from consideration. Running away was decidedly _not_ an option.

He could not leave her nor could he pretend obligation was the sole reason that bound him.

There was no sense in further denial. He cared deeply for her, startlingly so. No, he'd stay with her until the very end, until she walked over the threshold of her Oxfordshire home and into the arms of her father. A peculiar ache drummed in his chest to think on it.

 _Pathetic._

Erik scowled and swore, sending some frightened creature scurrying back up a tree. Who was this weak, pining popinjay he had become? They had not yet left Martinique and already he was missing her, dreading the day of their parting? He _should_ be awaiting it with eagerness. After all, she had been naught but a burden from the start, even before they were acquainted. With a bitter laugh he mulled over the satire that was their relationship: she was determined to drive him to madness; he was resolved to abuse and chase her away at every turn. What a pair they made! Her, naïve but emotional, and him, cultivated but aloof, she sought the feelings he tried mightily to repress.

Concealing said feelings was becoming more laborious by the day. In all honesty he wanted nothing more than to confess whatever repugnant seed of adoration was germinating inside of him, if only to unburden his soul and win a moment's peace of mind. Yet it could _never_ be. _T_ _hey_ could never be and not even he was so callous or diabolical to shower her with false declarations and hope where there was none. No woman deserved that and doing it to Christine was unconscionable.

For the first time Erik bedamned the work that had become his entire existence; he regretted ever meeting Clarkson and Monthall, ever becoming their puppet whilst recognizing that he'd never have crossed paths with Christine if not for them. The irony was not lost on him, of course. It seemed to define his life, irony. The son who most resembled his cruel, vain father yet was abhorred; the wayward boy who fled yet earned his first living hunting those who did the same; the young man who despised the Shah for his viciousness yet carried out the ruler's depraved whims; the man who had a chance at _something_ more yet shunned it.

It was as if his sum total was a grand joke of the Universe.

Fitting, though, for one who was quite literally a joining of angel and demon, his wretched face the two halves of a coin merged. Erik was an exercise in contrast, the embodiment of contrariety. Despite retreating last night, tripping over himself to escape, he turned and watched Christine from the trees: unable to endure her nearness yet unable to break from her completely. So he played voyeur for a second time that night, witnessed her bumbling efforts of comprehension, saw the gamut of emotions play upon her face—confusion, frustration, rage—heard her angrily curse him for a coward, wishing all the while that he was possessed with but an ounce of courage, that he was a selfless and undamaged man free to take her into his arms. How badly he wanted simply to hold her!

God, _could it be_ —was he falling for her? No, surely not! He was immune to this sort of nonsense. While sometimes he _did_ wish for those trivialities which were taken for granted by much of his sex, most times he was glad for the freedom. Furthermore, the odds of such a thing happening were astronomical; women had enticed him physically, yes, but none came close to stirring anything more profound.

After a decade of this Erik had concluded that he was not the romantic type. There was comfort, _regularity_ , in this notion. Believing himself incapable of such feelings released him of pressure or responsibility to feel them. He was a being of temporary pleasure, of transitory licentious interludes. The women whom he bedded had graciously understood, theirs was an efficient exchange; this system had worked beautifully for years.

Now was he to believe in the span of a week his frigid heart had been penetrated by a little slip of a maid, innocent as she was insufferable? Nigh on twenty years without so much as an inkling of sentiment and suddenly he had toppled head over heels, and for _whom_? A spoilt, prideful, stubborn little hellion determined to turn every bit of his hair grey? _Unfathomable!_ _Ridiculous!_ Stories like that didn't come true outside of fiction, _poor_ fiction at that.

His thoughts were eventually interrupted by the brightening sky and he bemoaned his inability to prolong the night. There had always been familiarity in darkness. Yet he could no more do that than stop the sun from rising, the wind from blowing, or that foolish wretch from burrowing into his soul. With no other recourse but to face _her_ , Erik started back with all the enthusiasm of a criminal sentenced to hang.

She was already awake and sat waiting - though he didn't presume it was for him - upon some rock or stump that had long ago succumbed to moss, her back was to him, her arms encircling her knees. In spite of his practiced stealth she somehow sensed his presence.

"I didn't expect you'd come back so late." she said softly. Had he not caught the slightest movement of her head, the voice could have been argued specious; otherwise she remained motionless.

"How could you be sure I _would_ return?"

"You always do." The whispered statement was uttered as indisputable fact. Guilt over being the recipient of such unflappable faith nettled at the walls of his chest, recalling her naïvete.

 _And I always shall_ , his mind supplied the words he himself could not say aloud.

 **o o o**

Nothing was mentioned of last night; a windfall for which both parties were indubitably grateful. It was too soon to discuss such things when the trio of regret, revelation, and tension were not yet cold in their respective graves, when shame loomed, glowering its disapproval over each of their shoulders. At her it flung reprimands of immodesty and wantonness, condemning her brief encounter with the vice of lust; at him were thrown the usual insults of _monster_ and _beast_ in addition to castigation over daring to consider defiling something so pure.

Their discourse was mild and a touch clumsy as expected of two people forced together without choice; he wouldn't allow himself to think there was anything _more_ to it, that theirs was the mutual apprehension of flowering attraction. After days without she resumed her game of questions in what was indisputably a quest for preoccupation. This time Erik did his best to indulge her.

 ** _How far is Sainte-Anne?_**

 _Fewer than ten miles._

 ** _Why have there been no more earthquakes?_**

 _It may not be that they've ceased but that we are too far from Peleé to perceive them._

 ** _Do you still believe there will be a major eruption?_**

 _I do, yes._

 ** _When?_**

 _Sooner rather than later, either way I cannot confess to being dismayed that we are leaving._

 ** _Why are you answering my questions?_** Here, Christine paused to look at him, bewilderment lining her face; he responded with a diffident shrug.

 _Would you rather I didn't?_ She shook her head, quickly recovering from her surprise.

 ** _Will you teach me how to use a sextant to navigate by the sun?_**

 _If it would please you._

Thus a morning of quiescence slipped into an afternoon of casual queries and prompt replies. She kept a polite distance from him at all times, cautiously avoiding any accidental touches; Erik couldn't decide whether to classify this as a bane or boon. Although, there came a moment, an ephemeral instant when he announced this to be their final time camping that he swore otherwise. Christine stood suspended, beaming with effusive joy and seemingly prepared to embrace him; he held his breath, _waiting._ Instead she thought better of it and dropped her arms, toeing at the dirt bashfully and leaving him strangely disappointed. This was the only such mistake and the day's routine was just that, _routine_.

"Shouldn't we make camp?"

"No, not just yet. Go and enjoy your last afternoon on Martinique, little princess." Christine chewed the inside of her cheek, eyeing him suspiciously as if it were some manner of diabolical test.

Upon deducing it wasn't, she ventured, "What am I to do?"

"Whatever suits your fancy, I suppose. _Within_ reason." The final bit was an addendum of automatic precaution, lest she harbor further schemes of gallivanting off for some silly purpose. Christ, neither his control nor patience could withstand a second time! Hopefully she had put all of that behind her _but_ given the girl in question Erik had more than a few misgivings.

"I think I'll look for wildflowers, the lowlands are home to several interesting species."

He nodded, placated by this harmless, reasonable course. Maybe he would have a relaxing evening yet. "Ensure that you do not wander far."

Christine called her assent over her shoulder, subtly extracting her portfolio from her rucksack; his earlier wounding derision still smarted and she was eager to avoid another instance. More than that she needed a _getaway_ , both from herself and from him, a chance to ruminate before she shattered under the weight of her thoughts. While her face and aura were stoic - they had been all day - the inside of her head was a turbulent sea, last night the lone subject of her cartwheeling thoughts.

In retrospect everything was a blur of sensations, words, and emotions. She recollected her bath, the confrontation, his wildly changeable moods, _and..._ The rest was hazy. Christine briefly remembered that they had nearly kissed and the anger spurred by his pulling away - _why exactly had she been enraged?_ \- her own defiance, and most of all what he had said and done. Filthy, obscene things, acts only meant for wives and known to whores. The feelings he elicited were the bit that confounded, lingering and tormenting in a never-ending caterwaul ever since.

She was an innocent regarding such things - the scholar within _was_ aware of the rude logistics of such pursuits - but on the subjects of passion and desire she remained wholly ignorant. Was yearning the word for what his touches and words had evoked? Was passion that tingling warmth churning the stomach and collecting below the navel until one felt they would burst? Was desire accountable for the pounding blood in her ears, the asphyxiating heat engulfing her body, the tremors invading and weakening her every muscle? What of the dampness that had gathered between her thighs, was that too owing to the same mysterious cause? And the subsequent aftermath of uncomfortable, aching pressure, what about _that_?

Christine blushed in scandalized shame over her boldness to even _wonder_. Were anybody to peek inside her thoughts... _Well_ , she'd likely be cast to the wild dogs or stoned in the village center. Still, the stigma was powerless to snuff her curiosity. But how would she gain such forbidden information? Her heart sank a touch to ken there was no possible way. Even if she _could_ ask someone, who was there? The woman would have to be married, widowed, or a harlot, consorting with the last was _absolutely_ out of the question, which left two options. How many widows did she know? Only Mrs Giry and she'd fling herself into the ocean first. As for married women, she never had any bosom companions near her in age aside from Meg so that avenue was futile as well. And she doubted she'd have access to a library in the near-future. She supposed she could always ask _him_... That notion was promptly cast into the flames; she'd rather die in nescience than ask Erik.

 _Erik._

His name hung over her like black cloud, mocking. _Always_ mocking! All of this was his doing, all of this was _his_ fault. She had known _nothing_ of lust before him! How did he inspire these salacious ideas? What sorcery kept him constantly in her every thought and dream? She harbored a certain _penchant_ for him, yes, but until last night her regard had been friendly and platonic. Now, _however..._

Unlike most girls Christine was never one for frivolous crushes. It wasn't owing to sexless disinterest but rather that she found books more fascinating than boys. _Boys._ Perhaps therein lay the problem, most of her life had been spent in the company of _boys_ not men, precocious, polite, proper boys. They were sweet, dull, and safe, nothing tantalizing. _Men_ on the other hand... A good number of men were scoundrels. Especially the so-called 'gentlemen' hiding predatory eyes behind courtly manners, brooding and world-weary they would snap up a shy young maiden such as she without remorse.

Good men like papa were few and far between and Erik was most assuredly _not_ a good man. He was terrifying and dangerous and ... _thrilling._ Every aspect of his person was enthralling: his voice, his past, his appearance, his presence; one look could set her breast aflutter or fill her with fear. She knew him to be a murderer, a blackguard, a fiend but he was atypical in that respect as well; he was also an intellectual, well-versed in literature and lore, and _sometimes_ — _rarely_ —a gentleman. How could a man so singular _not_ inflame and attract?

During this frenetic mental debate Christine furiously sketched if only to keep herself from blowing away. Though her rendering was the worse for it, a pitiful intersection of thick, wobbling lines; it looked like it had been penned by a heavy-handed six-year-old but she couldn't bring herself to care. Until one sentence brought her back to reality, to her _current_ reality where phantoms and men were one in the same, spying and spouting malice. Perhaps it was divine intervention to keep her from descending into the dungeons of her own mind, a fail-safe to prevent delusions from sowing too deeply. Naturally that _had_ to be it, the proof was in her reverie. What had she just been pondering - _Lord, save her!_ \- that she was _attracted_ to Erik?

"Still fiddling with those horrendous _sketches_ , I see." The sarcasm enveloping that particular word as tangible as the pencil she held.

"Still creeping about like a spectre, _I see._ "

"I'd think spectres partial to floating rather than creeping." Erik didn't know which was louder the grinding of her teeth or that of the pencil on paper, both rasped in a head-rending cacophony and both made him cringe; one of the two was likely to snap under the pressure. A colorful swear on the heels of a groan informed him that it had been the latter; a fine thing as teeth were a spot harder to replace than pencils.

"I suppose you're right, I _am_ hopeless." she said on an exhale.

"I don't believe I ever called you hopeless."

"No, you _didn't._ " Christine glared at him, features drawn in a petulant moue, her voice a child's treble, quavering and sullen. " _Hopeless_ would have been a compliment in comparison, _you_ said that my 'alleged' sketches were only fit for the dustbin, if I recall your exact words."

 _And water closet_ , he silently added; although he couldn't complain she had forgotten that detail, he was skeptical it would serve in his favor.

"I should not have been so harsh, it was ... _tactless_ of me." His apology was terse and inelegant, sounding foreign on a usually glib tongue.

"Seems you're quite often tactless." On that front he could offer no rebuttal, still, it prickled that she so readily agreed. He only sighed, surveying the damage, _not_ that much damage could be wrought upon what could only thus far be categorized as an eyesore.

"It was meant to be _Utricularia alpina_ _._ I wish I could do justice by it but it appears I'm relegated to mediocrity."

"Perhaps you are hindered by a lack of instruction? Hand me your pencil." Her finely-shaped brow gave a dubious quirk as he whittled the graphite back to usability and she studied as he twirled it between nimble fingers, testing the point and pursing his lips apparently satisfied with its sharpness.

"You can draw?"

"Well enough; I have skilled hands." One simple phrase and Christine was fighting to shove the lewd insinuations from mind, vividly recalling those same hands stroking her cheek, sliding up her thigh _and..._

"If you've no objection, we shall start anew. Here, may I?"

" _W-What?_ "

Shrouded in the realm of fantasy she barely heard his question, supplying a hasty nod in rejoinder; _h_ _ad_ she been listening Christine might have identified the phrase and its significance but it slipped by harmlessly, leaving her reeling when Erik situated himself behind her. His legs dangled on either side, firm, strong thighs caging her in. She froze completely— _not moving, not breathing, not blinking_ —nervous unrest awakening, unfurling from within. Only his chest _actually_ made contact - an effort at maintaining a respectable separation - still every nerve was set alight, her back blistering as though she had lain upon hot coals. What was wrong with her? Such reactions were befitting a common slattern, _not_ a virtuous lady, and _definitely not_ a prude who had never been kissed.

"You're bearing down overly hard, relax your hand and let the pencil glide over the paper." Deft arms wrapped about her hesitantly, his hand covering, directing hers; his breath fanned over her neck, warm and moist, while her own stuck somewhere between her lungs and throat. "Approach it at an angle, like so..."

Several nights previous had found them in a similar position whilst he taught her to use a sextant. Even then there had been a galvanizing tension between them, a sort of sweet burn, but that was _nothing_ to the lively, fluctuating electric current that now flowed through her, tissue and vein and bone. Almost as if she could feel him acutely in each minute cell.

" _Good,_ but your movements are still crude and choppy, you're drawing not splitting wood." He paused then, concern coloring his tone, "Are you all right? Your hands are shaking."

"A-Are t-they?" Her thoughts were one incoherent muddle; her head smouldered with the flames of an invisible fire; the oxygen in her chest turned to molasses. Far from all right and yet so much _better_. Both voice and touch held her in a heady thrall and she could scarcely feel her limbs anymore.

"Do you wish to stop?"

 _No, no, never stop!_ her mind cried, wanting him, _needing_ him.

"I'm fine." The ersatz assertion echoed with the piercing edge of a missed note. Either he did not notice or care, for he didn't quit. With Erik's patiently agonizing lead, the simple sketch began to take shape, to _live_. It surpassed anything she had done on her own even at that bare stage but still his hand kept on. _Still_ he guided her, whispering suggestions, his voice a seduction of its own—sinful and musical—a caress at the shell of her ear.

 _Wonderful, divine delectation_ she wanted never to end. Unfortunately, _as with all good things,_ it did. Suddenly the warmth of his hands was gone, the solidness of his chest was absent, and in pitifully quaking hands she held a beautiful, completed depiction of _Utricularia alpina,_ the only concrete evidence of what they had just shared.

 _It needn't be_ , something within suggested. He had not yet moved. Thoughts of whirling about and kissing him soundly, of drawing him close and giving him no choice but to put his hands upon her, _of_ straddling his lap and looping her fingers in his hair came clear and unbidden. However, all she did was sit there, stupid and stationary. _Say something!_ railed her mind, _do something!_

"It's c-carnivorous, you k-know," she managed shakily, " _the f-flower_."

Inside she was swearing and spitting and cursing herself. Of _all_ the things to say, why on earth would she choose that? He made a hum of polite interest low in his throat and Christine had the urge to burrow underground, her aversion to such less than her present embarrassment.

" _Christine..._ "

Like a marionette she turned, her string the pull of his voice. He was close, millimeters away, so close that she could count the individual dark lashes framing his enchanting eyes. Eyes that lured, ensnared, and devoured; they rippled, blued steel, potent with want and shy tenderness, implored her surrender. She countered with unspoken compliance. The exchanged look rendered them equal, no longer was she an anxious virgin in front of an older man of the world in that moment she was merely a woman before a man.

Erik could not say what lunacy or witchcraft compelled him. Perhaps it was her nearness, or the tremor of her hands beneath his, or her scent of earth and flowers... In her eyes he saw his own yearning reflected and tumbled willingly under her spell. And then he knew nothing outside of the pull of her lips, strong and sure as the tide. Mesmerizing, powerful, pervasive. Slowly he leaned in, surrendering to what felt inexplicably _right_ , what he knew to be wrong; it was of no consequence, he would live a century of punishment if only for a taste of her sweetness. One moment he was falling, _drifting,_ and the next...

An ear-splitting screech rent the air.

Immediately he pulled away as if scalded, volleys of obscenities flying hither and thither in his mind, questioning the existence of fantastical creatures such as spirits and banshees. What else could have made such a racket? Seasoned eyes swept the vicinity for a threat—real or imaginary—and found naught but a petrified girl trembling between his legs; during the commotion she had scrambled backwards wedging her firm derrière against him, a far from calming effect.

The persisting high of desire still fogged his brain, turning his acumen to sludge and he asked thickly what the devil had come over her. Christine could only stammer, incomprehensible fragments of vowels and consonants falling out of her mouth. Speech obviously impossible, she raised a pale, shaking hand and pointed to her ankle. His gaze followed her trajectory unsure of what to expect. But upon observing the culprit, the instigator of all her terror and grief, a chuckle slipped off his tongue.

A spider!

Imagine, all of this ado over a spider!

Granted, it _was_ a rather large one, a tarantula. It stared back at him guilelessly from eight beady black eyes and he was helpless but to snicker again, relief enriching the sound - like one who had just discovered the 'ghost' haunting them was a creaking shutter; this did nothing to help matters.

" _WHAT,_ " she spat venomously, "IS SO BLOODY FUNNY?!" Erik guffawed, finding yet more hilarity in her reaction. He could easily picture the vehement antipathy in her eyes and it made him laugh all the harder, the delight of annoying Christine was a surprisingly invigorating drug and he couldn't help but grin at her discomfort. "GET IT OFF OF ME!"

"I _HATE_ BUGS!" Their unexpected guest still rested on her leg in spite of the fuss, plainly quite content with its choice in perches. The spider stretched eight long, hirsute fuchsia legs indolently, looking for all purposes like a king bedecked in a coronation robe.

"It's a fine thing, then, that it is an arachnid and not an insect." The look he received could curdle milk before it left the udder.

" _GET. IT. OFF._ " she reiterated through clenched teeth, shaking her leg. She huffed in disgust, kicking out more violently until Erik pinned down her thigh.

"Stop flailing about, you do not want her to feel threatened."

"PARDON?! _DON'T ..._ DON'T WANT _HER_ TO FEEL _THREATENED_?!" she repeated shrilly, "WHAT ABOUT ME?!"

"Be still and lower your voice." Erik carefully slid off the rocks and came to stand alongside, hovering over her outstretched leg.

"W-What are y-you going to d-do?"

"Did you want me to leave her be?"

"NO!"

"Then do not move."

With delicate—bordering on reverent—precision, he reached down and coaxed the creature into his palm, which, she noted with horror was nearly large enough to fill it. Seconds went by but he did not throw it under his boot, he just examined it with ... _admiration?_ on his face. Maybe there was more amiss than previously thought. Why else would he appreciate and _touch_ such revolting abominations? This ... _thing_ made the serpent look positively cuddly by comparison. At least _that_ one had only two eyes - the _proper_ amount in her opinion. Or was it that he liked seeing her squirm? Each scenario seemed as likely as the next with Erik in question. God, he and Raoul would get on famously.

"Why haven't you killed it yet?"

His head gave a nonplussed cock as if _she_ had sprouted eight legs, an inordinate number of eyes, and colorful fur. "Why the devil would I do that?"

"Because it's _repulsive_ and _vile_ and— _why_ do you keep calling it a her?"

"It's a female and a gorgeous example of _Avicularia_ _versicolor._ " She muffled the ensuing shriek of aggravation against her knees.

" _You_ and your goddamn pets, Erik!"

"Pets? I've no intention of keeping her."

" _Oh?_ Are you absolutely certain? Why, I'm sure she'd make a great friend for that repugnant viper! What did you call _it_ again? Ah, yes, Adam! What a handsome pair they would make, Adam and ... _Eve_!" The maniacal edge to her voice tapered off into a sharp crack.

"Yours would be a fine idea had I not released Adam the day before last."

"Y-You did?"

"Yes. He served his purpose well."

"W-What did you do to him?" Christine was taken aback. What had been the point of capturing the beast only to let it go? _Unless..._ did he skin it or something equally barbaric? True, she found snakes creepy and foul but that didn't mean she wished to see them tortured.

"Nothing to cause duress, I assure you. Unfortunately ... _Eve_ \- as you call her - is of no use to me outside of being rather a comely diversion. Would you care to hold her? As you can see she's very docile." Her reply merited no consideration.

"Absolutely NOT."

But his eyes shone with that indescribable strangeness, the one which transformed her nerves into a wriggling mass of worms, and she knew _something_ was wrong; dread eclipsed her brain, blacking out all else in its shadow. She needed to run yet knew she could not.

"Put out your hands. _Trust me._ "

There it _was_ , everything she had feared summed up in six bland words.

" _Erik—_ " Half entreaty, half warning. In spite of it all, Christine found herself haltingly raising her hands as bidden, a loyal cur to its master's whims, _that_ voice irresistible. From a place of paralyzed horror she could only stare on as he lowered the spider into her cupped palms, her face an amalgamation of ugly shock and mute terror.

 _No, no, no, no! Don't_ —

It tickled desperately. Weird and furry and solid yet somehow light.

... _and_ not so detestable after all. She giggled involuntarily at the feel of the silky hairs against her skin. Velvet-soft, not coarse like boar bristle as expected, it was captivating in a way - a bizarre, unnatural way - and oh-so-vibrant: its body a metallic emerald green and the rest covered in hair of cerise and Tyrian purple. Begrudgingly she could appreciate the spider's appeal, although she'd sooner kiss it than admit as much to Erik.

"I think she fancies you." At this she scowled but it was devoid of any real animosity. "Even so, let's return her to the trees, shall we?"

Large hands slipped underneath hers and brought them up to a tree; neither of them breathed, both of them stationary. Eventually the spider placed a tentative foot on the bark, then another, and another, languidly beginning to climb. Christine looked back at him, her grin small and bashful, a magical glint in her eye like dew upon rich soil. He smiled in reply, a dash too smugly.

"You should trust me more often, young Daaé." His shoulders lifted in a bemused shrug, "You'll find I am usually correct." Christine rolled her eyes at the last.

"Come, I've something to show you."

They walked for several minutes in the golden sunlight of late afternoon, wending and winding through jungle. Every so often he would glance back - almost tenderly - to ensure she followed, offering his hand over arduous areas. Here was the mannerly side of Erik Grey, the impeccably genteel viscount that was as much a part of him as the Angel of Doom. And Christine contemplated if she had ever met someone so multifaceted, each one as rich and interesting as the last.

When they stopped it was in front of a seemingly overgrown array of foliage; she tried to hide her obvious disappointment, unsure just _what_ she was anticipating, and awaited further instruction. Curiously, Erik stepped into the morass, motioning for her to imitate his action. Steeling herself with a deep exhale, Christine stepped through the tangled green curtain, gasping at what she beheld.

It was a hut - not the assemblage of still-standing wood and beams in which they had sheltered the first night - but an _actual_ dwelling. Neither large nor impressive by any means yet still quite habitable, something that might belong to a humble fisherman or farm worker; regardless it was marvellous.

"Go on." Erik encouraged, sliding a brass key into her grasp. Heart glad and resonating within her chest, Christine inserted it into the lock and turned, holding her breath as the door swung open.

The interior was much the same as the outside, small and rustic but tidy. In one corner stood a basin for washing, in the other a simple wood-burning stove, and in the center of the room was a bed. A cabinet, small table and set of chairs completed the furnishings; their stuff already rested in a neat pile, he must have carried it over while she sketched. Abruptly she was struck with the magnitude of the gesture, tears forming a watery film over her vision as she grappled for appropriate words; Erik frowned in evident misinterpretation.

"It's no stately manor, but I thought the accommodations preferable to a tent."

"Yes! _It's_ —They're splendid! I just..."

She turned and smiled at him. Unable to look him in the eye lest she betray herself, wary of the guaranteed sneer if he caught the sentiment in her gaze. Briefly she thought to embrace him, to dart onto her toes and place a kiss on his cheek... Instead she elected to inspect the room if only to buy time to collect herself. Gingerly she stepped over the threshold, proceeding to examine everything until the tears receded and the irritating tightness had faded from her throat. Only when her emotions were again safely folded away did Christine notice the bed - the _single_ bed.

"There's only one bed..." It was spoken absentmindedly, meant as a thought rather than statement. Nevertheless she could not recant and to hope it had gone unheard was fruitless.

"It is _yours_." said Erik without preamble.

Beneath the deadpan tone lay a faint vestige of contempt; her blunder was one she rued. Why hadn't she stayed silent? Did she think after ten days and eleven nights together he'd be transmogrified into a rapist by the presence of a real bed? Clearly he believed she did in the wake of her witless comment. Good Lord, could she ever achieve anything without putting her foot in her mouth? Small wonder he consistently called her a foolish child! Moreover, would sharing a bed with him be _such_ a gross breach of propriety? Even if Erik hadn't seen her in the altogether last night, even _if_ he hadn't touched her - the memory induced a shiver - they had slept in close proximity many times; the tent was scarcely bigger than the bed and she had spent over a week unchaperoned in the company of a strange, unrelated man. Were anybody to find out her reputation would already be irrevocably besmirched. What was there to fear?

 _Your own control_ , answered her mind, _your own feelings._

"I-I _only_ meant ... I feel _inconsiderate_ for—"

"There's no need." he interposed stolidly, "These days I am better acclimated to sleeping in a _bedroll_ rather than a bed." His eyes glinted fleetingly with _something_ before glaciating anew. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall see to our supper, young Daaé."

Erik bowed out without pause and for once she didn't blame his leaving. With a sigh that was equal parts contrition and self-hatred Christine sat upon the edge of the mattress and wandered into the realm of daydreams: a world where no strain existed between them, a world where she wasn't thoughtless, a world free of repressed emotions, a world _far_ superior to the one _they_ currently occupied.

* * *

 **Do you hate me for another interrupted kiss? ;)**

 **Hopefully the spider scene made up for it a bit. Don't worry, there will not be a second or _third_ \- if you asked Christine - time.**

 **Any guesses what Erik wanted with the snake? There are hints in chapters 5 and 15.**

 **A/N: _Avicularia_ _versicolor_ ( _Caribena versicolor_ as of 2017) or Antilles pinktoe tarantula is a species of spider native to Martinique. Arboreal and even-tempered, they are a favorite of those spider-keeping types. And, like all tarantulas, quite large. They're actually pretty (so far as creepy-crawlies go) and are very colorful with the males being smaller and brighter than the females. It's worth it to look them up _if_ you can keep from cringing, lol.  
**

 **Many thanks for the reviews, I look forward to more. :)**


	18. Black flood on whirlpool driven

**A/N: So this chapter is going to be a 2-parter (meaning 2 chapters will occur over the same day), I really wanted to avoid doing that with this particular story but so many things were happening that a split was inevitable. I did go with a smooth breaking point though so at least there isn't a cliffhanger.**

 **Thank you for all the reviews! I'm glad people are enjoying my notes and the story in general. And congrats to Child of Dreams who was the first to answer my question about the snake; coincidentally this chapter is all yours haha.**

* * *

 **8 May - Day 11  
**

Were one to ask Raoul which aspect of sea travel was the most wanting he would have unequivocally proclaimed it to be the cabins, however, _that_ was before he ventured into the dining saloon. Indeed his very first visit to the aforementioned put things - _rather rudely_ \- into perspective, while his lodgings _were_ stifling, squalid, and minuscule at least he had privacy and quiet. It quickly became apparent that no such luxuries were to be found within _any_ of the steamer's public areas, everywhere there were tittering women, brawling, shouting men, and children scurrying underfoot like vermin.

This was undeniably some newly envisaged version of hell, a hell, which, was made yet _more_ ironic by the name it bore; only the day after leaving port did he learn this floating perdition was christened the _SS Fortuna_. Though Raoul was no scholar of Latin, having barely muddled through his boyhood studies, but he found this paradox to be uproarious. That someone would think to name a decrepit ship after the Roman goddess of luck and fortune when it would be better off scrapped than sailing _had_ to be a divine jest. At least he had this small source of amusement available to him, one which thus far had not failed to bring a grin to his face. Merely thinking on it as he navigated the ship's ghastly interior was enough to evoke a chuckle and, as an added bonus, frighten away other guests who doubtlessly thought him mad.

If Christine were accompanying him she would assuredly _not_ share in his outlook, certain to remind him that Fortuna was the goddess of luck both good _and_ bad. _So, really_ , would come the assertion, _the jape is nonsensical because fate can go either way; Fortuna spins a wheel._ And then she'd quote Pacuvius or some other stodgy Roman bastard called Gaius or Marcus as evidence.

 _Philosophers say that Fortune is insane and blind and stupid,_  
 _and they teach that she stands on a rolling, spherical rock:_  
 _they affirm that, wherever chance pushes that rock, Fortuna falls in that direction._

But, alas, it wasn't to be, Raoul was all by his lonesome and just as in the days since her departure he rather longed for his dear friend; he'd even take her lacking humor and snide haughtiness in pleasant stride if only to see her! In spite of these minor shortcomings Christine would have made this journey amongst animals tolerable, and as he walked into the dining saloon the word _animal_ was the foremost that came to mind.

Raoul thought back to the summer he and Philippe spent visiting an eccentric uncle who had sold his fashionable Parisian townhouse and purchased a provincial farm; he remembered running amok and unshod amongst the livestock, the stink of horse, sweat, and hay thick about his person, lobbing cow manure at his brother and wading through mud with pigs.

Yes, a farm was an apt analogy. Although maybe this was closer to a circus? The sole benefit to absolute disarray was that the crew was also overtaxed, not a boon if one were reliant upon their intervention or aid but quite advantageous _if_ said person were inclined to steal from the kitchens. He was no proponent of larceny however he hardly believed a few pieces of bread, cheese, and fruit would be overly missed. So Raoul had raided the larders and with the majority of the ship's officers and sailors preoccupied with trying to prevent a riot, nobody had taken note.

Spoils tucked securely within his jacket he made his way back towards his pitiful little cabin finding the passageways were remarkably empty, _another_ blessing.

God, what had he become?

The third day of an expedition spanning nearly a fortnight and already he was like a wild beast dragging a kill to its lair; Raoul could only imagine _what_ Christine would say. If he shut his eyes he could almost hear the admonishment... and, in a way he sort of _yearned_ for it. This thought was immediately succeeded by the knowledge that he was surely going crazy. _Dear Lord_ , was he so desperate for companionship that he lamented the absence of her righteous spiels?

Distracted and somewhat disturbed by the notion of his dwindling lucidity Raoul's attention was elsewhere, completely detached from the hall in which he walked, and with a spectacular collision he bowled over some poor woman, knocking the two of them to the ground and spilling the purloined contents of his jacket in all directions.

Face a deeper crimson than the stolen apples now strewn about he jumped to his feet, ignoring the posterior and pride that smarted in unison, and provided a hasty apology, wishing - for all intents and purposes - that he could vanish through walls. He bent to seize the proof of his crime, which still lay scattered here and there mocking his clumsiness, and with a muttered oath recalled his manners, offering to help the lady up. Raoul spared a cursory glance at her as he held out his hand, she was fairly young or so he assumed from her figure and style of dress, though he could see precious little of her face, a curtain of raven hair obscuring the features. Briefly he felt a stab of relief to learn she was _not_ the godawful shrew from two days past, however he supposed such information would have quickly outed via shrieks and complaints.

With a firm tug Raoul pulled her upwards, catching her arm as she stumbled and let out a gasp of surprise, his mouth falling open.

" _Héloïse?_ " he gawked, his expression a fine impersonation of someone who had seen a ghost. And in fact he _did_ question whether she was an apparition conjured by his cracking sanity.

" _Mr de Chagny._ " she greeted with wry courtesy.

" _But—what?_ How...?" Stuttering and gaping as he was he more resembled fish than man.

"The same reason as yourself, I presume."

He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, feeling more ridiculous by the second. "Oh... the mountain, _of course_." She nodded.

"I've spent most of my life on Martinique and Peleé has ever been active but never have I seen it behave like this. They say it isn't dangerous but in my experience men are often too immersed in their own pride to admit mistakes. When I was a girl my father told me stories of the volcanoes he had seen whilst sailing the world, told me of Tambora and the Year Without a Summer, told me of Vesuvius burying the villages below in tombs of ash, told me of Krakatoa and the sound of its eruption heard thousands of miles away in Australia... _This_ does not feel right. I would rather leave my home than die screaming, incinerated by fire and brimstone." Héloïse trained her gaze on Raoul then, arching a sculpted ebony brow, cognac-colored irises rife with mischief and scrutinizing the food that littered the floor. "And what of you, dear, have you designs to open a second dining saloon?"

"N-No— _I... That is_ , I _just..._ "

" _Relax,_ " She laughed, "I've no mind to inform on you. I can't say I blame you, years spent aboard a ship instilled in me what a fright mealtimes are, which is why I brought along some provisions of my own. You're more than welcome to join me if you'd like." A smile graced her pretty mouth, " _Now_ , let's clean this mess before you're discovered, as dismal as these accommodations are the brig will be _far_ worse." Raoul gave a fleeting boyish grin when she handed him the remainder of the assorted victuals, mouthing his thanks.

Héloïse pursed her lips, " _Odd,_ isn't it?"

"What is?"

"That such a doddering ship should be called the _Fortuna_?"

Raoul was helpless to stem the guffaw and snort that tore from his person as he followed Héloïse to her cabin.

"I was thinking the _very_ same!"

 **o o o**

 **[Before Dawn]**

It was quite dark when Erik woke Christine with a gentle joggle of her shoulder, a cursory glance out of the hut's sole window revealed only desolate blackness, not a shred of light to be seen, clearly there were some hours until dawn. Sleep's talons reluctant to slacken their grasp she donned her socks, boots, and hat by candlelight as if in a trance.

Eyes still sagging and mouth still paralyzed by slumber the morning's ablutions were carried out in silence. Erik, for his part, did not disturb her past the initial rousing; with an inattentive vagueness she noted him disappear laden with their things returning shortly thereafter and repeating the process until nothing was left. It struck her then... _they were leaving Martinique._

In mere hours, perhaps minutes, they would be aboard a boat headed for the Virgin Island of Tortola. How very peculiar it all seemed! Like a faraway dream hovering just out of reach. Though she knew it was a definite reality her lethargic mind had not fully caught up; a cleansing splash of water from the basin lent her the acuity to thoroughly process the situation.

 _They were leaving, today._ Embarking on the second leg of their expedition, _today_.

Comprehension was almost too much and now she sought answers if only to lighten the burden of such weighted knowledge, the sharp blade of realization at last severing the ties muting her tongue. Unfortunately her dulled brain - not yet in synchronization with her speech - had _other_ designs. "What is the time?" she asked, unknowing what had prompted her to do so or _why_ it mattered and feeling like an utter fool; from the manner of his reply Erik was of the same attitude.

"A quarter til five." he supplied, " _Ante meridiem_ , of course." This final comment was carried forth on a teasing drawl, not intended to mock (or _so_ she believed); his making light was not something to which she had gotten entirely accustomed. Erik was difficult to read at the best of times and often little difference existed between his jokes and sardonic taunts. His gaze roamed over her in presumptive assessment of her readiness, even still Christine's skin prickled as though caressed by thousands of hot needles. Lord, those eyes would burn her to nothingness!

"All baggage has been accounted for but have you everything you need?" She nodded with a heavy swallow.

"Come, we must be off." He offered his hand at the same time a snap from the other extinguished the taper; her jaw dropped in awe at the trick. Before she had a chance to wonder _how_ it had been accomplished, she was led through the door.

Under Erik's sure yet cautious guiding, the warm solidity of his hand engulfing hers, the feat was all-but forgotten as they forged a path through the jungle; from the second they linked hands until he released her, Christine could focus on naught but the titillating sensation of skin kissing skin. Always in the depths of her subconscious was a sense of niggling danger, a warning against this powerful thrall in which he held her, however excitement outweighed prudence. If these feelings were to consume her then let her be consumed! Only when the contact ended was mind reconnected to body. She blinked to restore equilibrium and saw that they stood on the bank of a river, this one larger, faster, wilder than the last. In all honesty the sight was more than a touch daunting.

She regarded the dark, quick-flowing water suspiciously. While she _could_ swim, she was by no means proficient at the sport. It would be enough just to keep her head above water, make no mention of currents or hindrances... "Is it terribly deep?"

"No more than two meters from what I've heard, though I've not personally made a study of its depth; it is a short walk to the village from the other side."

Christine continued to fix it with a wary gaze as if it might suddenly rear up and sink its fangs into her arm. She frowned, worrying her lower lip, and posed what she considered to be an important query. " _How_ are we to cross?"

He tilted his head and simply looked at her, then with an elegant flourish yanked away a tarp - she had originally speculated it to be a boulder - and exposed a small rowboat already containing their stuff. She beheld it with a type of bewilderment. A boat, _of course_. Had she assumed they would swim across or wait for a ferry? What an imbecile he must think her! No longer could Christine demur, she _did_ care about his opinion and yesterday had forced her to accept it. Part of her sneered that she had fallen under his spell with the wretched ease of a character from a blasted novel of sensibility while the rest was lightened, buoyed by the relief of confession.

"I brought over all things of personal import to avoid necessitating two trips, do not be alarmed to find your rucksack missing." She glanced up to see the boat already halfway in the water and him with it. Sweet Mother of Mercy, _this_ was truly happening, they were truly departing!

"When?"

"Last evening." He came ashore and held the stern steady, extending his hand for a second time that morning with a bow. "Your ship awaits, little princess."

The ground shook with a slight tremor as she climbed aboard, certainly not enough to send her sprawling but detectable nonetheless. Christine reflected on her previous inquiry over the cessation of the earthquakes which had become somewhat commonplace. Meeting his stare, she contemplated whether she had inadvertently brought misfortune upon their heads. No words were traded and Erik appeared - for all purposes - implacable as usual yet he moved with increased haste, hurriedly shoving off from the bank and beginning to row forthwith, rowlocks creaking under the strain. While his rushed pace was a bit odd it didn't merit an investigation. So, she sat back and kept her mouth closed, fixating instead on her surroundings.

Such amazement there was to be found in the murk of morning and evening. Why had she never noticed before this adventure? Days ago she had observed how the whole of the world came alive in the sun's absence but the discovery had been an accidental one. Back in Oxfordshire and even during her first fortnight on the island Christine, like most, viewed the space between twilight and dawn with indifference. Nighttime was when one retired indoors—for dining and sleeping and reading by the hearth—and daytime was for enterprise—for turns about the gardens, riding, strolls to the village, and walks through the woods—but not until Erik did she ken she'd been mistaken. It was night where the true beauty lay, its thrill simultaneously sensory and voyeuristic: an attempt to peek at a forbidden realm whilst all the inhabitants slumbered, the sentinel darkness robbing her of sight as deterrent against the intrusion.

Although no moon shone above the stars remained despite the fading sky, determined to do their King's work until ousted by the sun. Bemused, she pondered the symbolism of a new moon on the eve of a new odyssey. Crickets, frogs, and cicadas still kept up their eventide chorus, a serenade meant especially for they two, enhancing the sublime serenity of the starlit crossing. Resolute were the trees lining the water's edge, their leaves reaching in ever-upward homage to the cosmos; the sandy shore underfoot firm and strong, unwearied by the perpetual burden of the river rushing over it; and the foliage in the shadow of tree and bank free and gay, dancing lively in the breeze, shining with the adornment of diamond-like dew. It was as if they were passing through a painting by Church, Doughty, or Friedrich.

She could not have envisioned better parting image of Martinique, everything around her a tribute to beauteous nature. Beneath her fingers the water was cool and silken as she trailed them along its surface in reverent farewell. Respectful of the moment's poignancy all went quiet, even the boat slowed and stopped, floating in loyal idleness. Yet something _else_ had crept in alongside the placidity; unable to be classified it made her uneasy. Christine glanced at Erik, questions written on her face, but his concentration was upstream; ears pricked and eyes narrowed, he bore a likeness to a dog listening for his master's whistle. The absurd parallel might have elicited a giggle had he not turned, seemingly staring right through her, his expression _strange_ : a look that penetrated her very soul, tapping into the primal reservoir of fear that lived within all creatures.

With urgency Erik began rowing again. The tempo of oar meeting water was frenzied and forlorn, menacingly so, a soloist awaiting the other instruments _and_ she had no desire to hear the rest of the hellish composition. No choice was she given. Another symphony supplanted the natural one, a cacophonous spectral rush, invisible and crushing. Here was the music of terror and here Christine sat searching for its source.

Fewer than ten meters—two lengths of the little boat—stretched between them and the opposite bank when she saw _it_.

 _but Achilles the spear-renowned from the bank he had leapt  
To the stream, but with cataract surge the River against him swept,_

A wave surged forward frothing, churning at a deafening clip, the rushing white water a thousand horses bearing down upon them.

 _Tossing a turmoil of torrents, and hurling the host of the slain  
Onward, till squadrons of dead on the slayer were charging again.  
_

Vulnerable, naked without spear or shield, she awaited the cavalry's charge.

 _And he roared as a bull, and he cast forth on to the land those dead;  
And he wrought to deliver the living that down his fair streams fled,  
_

It was Death. Annihilation—impending and inevitable—sped forth with unfathomable rapidity. Outrunning the swell was impossible. Surprisingly the cognizance of approaching demise was more sedate than anticipated, but she supposed one did not oft devote much imagination to dying. Prayers - she postulated - were worthless, even _they_ could not match the river's swiftness. Solemn and wistful she turned to him and simply _beheld_ , beheld the masked rogue who to her had become so dear. Once an enemy, then a friend, _and now..._ _Now_ their future was to end alongside their present. Dark eyes met light, antithetical. Two halves of a whole they were, hers the skies of night—nearly black—and his those of day—a lofty snatch of sky glimpsed through cloud; the two melded into a reciprocal emotive exchange, one which contained all of the regret, sadness, yearning, and affection in the world. Words were slow and unnecessary in lieu of that gaze which laid all feelings bare. She placed a shaking hand over his in a final gesture, holding tight in the face of closing quietus.

 _Casting about them the screen of his eddies deep and wide.  
Round the hero the terrible surge towered seething on every side_

And only Homer's words were there in her head, no flashes of a life lived nor memories of those loved. Everything she needed lay here sound beneath her hand. One last look and a smile as the vengeful river at last claimed Achilles.

The current whirled and writhed about her in a mad dance of victory. Christine was pulled in every direction, pulled and walloped and spun in an endless roll. Here, there, _everywhere_ was water. There was no more sky, no more trees, no more earth, _all_ had been swallowed by the deluge. Faster and more savagely the dancing torrent twirled, sweeping her hither and thither, pitching her over in endless repeat, making it so that she could not surface for breath amidst the gyrating mass.

Dizzy and battered she ceased fighting. Capitulation seeped into her every muscle, tranquilizing and tepid, soothing burning lungs and aching skull; hers was a quiet surrender, a simple shutting of eyes and total relaxation. There was little sorrow in it, no sense in brooding over something imminent. Her life, albeit short _,_ had been privileged and pleasant. Papa had once said new paths sprang from denouements and Christine chose to regard this as one such occasion. Soon she would be with the mother she had never met, a silver lining and the terminus of her thoughts. She was aware her looks favored dear mamma's but what of everything else? Did they share the same interests, the same true heart, the same thirst for adventure? What of their personalities? Were their voices and laughs one in the same? Had Charlotte Daaé wrinkled her nose or gnawed her lip when thinking as her daughter did?

So many questions and all promising to be answered anon.

On the fringes of consciousness and delirious musing she was seized hard about the torso and jerked upwards. Whether it was the surge's doing or some monster come from the deep to devour her she couldn't say. Yet neither monster nor nature could delay any longer. In the end it was the black net of Death that closed around her, looming from all sides.

As it hemmed in Christine was again pulled skyward, ascending towards heaven, except now the water had gone—evaporated, as if by magic—and she lay unmoving upon something firm. Her body still vividly recollected the bullying, yanking, pummeling river but the feeling was a lingering phantasm, she was free of its clutches. Was this the hereafter? _Curious..._ she hadn't expected the afterlife to be so damnably dark. Where was the dazzling celestial beacon of which everybody returned from the verge of death had spoken? Even through closed eyelids she could perceive no heavenly light beckoning her into another existence. Where then was she?

And _what_ was poking, prodding, and jostling her so? Good God, it was positively insufferable!

However, upon remembering both herself _and_ her predicament it occurred to Christine that the afterlife was decidedly _not_ the place to take the Lord's name in vain. After all, it wouldn't do for a guest invoke her host's wrath, _especially_ when said host was responsible for her fate eternal. Thus she took the sensible course and apologized. The resultant words came broken and slurred from a sluggish tongue. Although she hoped the general gist had gotten across never did she consider there would be a reply.

 _Christine? Oh, thank God._

What a bizarre turn, she knew _that_ voice...

Had _he_ died as well? Did they both inhabit the same purgatory? Inquisitive, interested to perceive this fresh reality, she opened her eyes.

How utterly anticlimactic! There was naught here but rocky ground, foliage, greying sky, _and..._ Erik. Well, at least she wasn't alone in this bleak place. He leaned over her, a heretofore-unobserved wild fright about him; he was muttering something, she caught snippets and one clear sentence:

 _Stupid girl ... thought you were ... was so worried..._

 _Never do that to me again._

Now _this_ was puzzling. Christine had always presumed fear to be an emotion beneath him, under the impression that it would take a vis major to scare one beset with an innate gift for generating terror. Indeed it begged the question if he was _here_ , alarmed and by her side, and this supposed afterlife was identical to the scenery before the disaster, did that mean she was still ... _alive?_

A confused blink and a cough; another blink, then a choking cough-turned-fit that concluded on her belly, propped up by elbows and vomiting water and spittle. Christine slid back into a slump just _breathing,_ incapable of sitting up fully with the enormous weight of revelation pushing down upon her, stunned that she had cheated Death. She was fatigued but ultimately unscathed and told him as much when he asked.

"Can you stand?"

" _I-I..._ I _think_ so." Christine managed to make it onto her feet but the triumph was short-lived, her legs gave out swaying like trees in a storm; Erik caught her against him and for the first time since the calamity she _actually_ looked upon him. He was sopping wet the same as she; his black hair hung limply askew blending with the mask - _how had it stayed on?_ ; his body was heaving with breath, a pained edge to it; there was a gash at his hairline, not large but nonetheless gushing a steady stream of blood.

" _Y-You're bleeding._ " She stammered the obvious, her brows knitting together in concern.

"It's _nothing_ , I'm fine." His response was one of cool dismissal but within his eyes there flashed an entirely _different_ emotion. Seconds-earlier dread had been replaced by something fiercer, she recognized _whatever_ it was from two nights past, identical and yet _more_ violent. Her heartbeat went from walk to sprint upon seeing the want—raw and insatiable—emanating from those irises.

Water-mixed-with-blood trickled from his hair soaking the mask's cloth and running into his eyes; Erik blinked away the irritation it caused, his gaze unwilling to falter. He swallowed thickly, saliva skidding down his throat like a lump of sand; his back teeth locked together with force enough to crack in reflex to the sharp, burning pain. Respiration was taxing and _not_ owing to the bruising of his ribs, his each breath rapid and shallow despite the protest of his lungs following exertion; the rise and fall of his chest was nearly imperceptible, nostrils flaring slightly with every exhale the lone indication he still breathed.

He _should_ turn away of _that_ he was well-aware.

How many times had found them balancing atop a precipice in a similar position? Twice? Thrice? And it was _not_ right and it _was_ far from proper but something within had snapped, breaking free in tandem with the river's burst banks. In much the same way he had uncovered lust the night he saw her bathing, almost losing her had provoked an alien stirring inside his chest. For a moment he had known panic true and deep unlike _anything_ he had ever experienced: not in war when his life was in peril, not in youth when tracking the most heinous specimens of man and beast through thick jungle, not in Persia where every day could have been his last, not in the field on treacherous assignments. _Never._

What it was he didn't care to speculate, not when she was here in his arms. So _slender,_ so _perfect_ , fitting to his form like she was made explicitly for that purpose. Dear God, he _still_ held her, could _feel_ the heat of her even through their drenched clothing. One hand resided at the small of her back, the other between her shoulder blades; her lower half rested flush against him in want of support, a realization to which his body boldly reacted. Her eyes were hooded, her breathing sharp and disjointed; and, _oh_ , how she trembled, a solitary leaf quaking in the wind. She looked up at him mesmerized, entranced by a monster. Such a little fool! Once Erik would never have permitted anyone to stare at his face but now he _needed_ it, _needed_ to see his own longing mirrored in her eyes. Within those dark pools swirled trepidation and shock yet she didn't struggle instead remaining pliant in his embrace, _w_ _illing_ and _waiting_ in his hold.

 _Propriety. Self-denial. Restraint._

What purpose did they serve? What did they yield but misery and frustration? He wanted her; she wanted him. It was perhaps the most elementary thing ever there was, its solution plain. No more resisting; he could no longer bear it. She blinked in rapid, nervous increments as he bent his head nearer, unwavering in his quest. He halted a hair's breadth away, their breath mingling warm and moist. His name issued forth on a breathy whisper, question tinged with a whit of _pleading_. It was all that was needed, the final straw before the dam broke. Erik's breathing quickened, his chin quavering slightly as he leaned forward and caught her top lip between his.

And the world ceased mid-revolution. And their surroundings crumbled away, leaving behind dust and ruins and skeletons. And all he knew—the sum of _everything_ —was _her_.

Good Lord, _why_ had he deferred so long?

Presently he couldn't recall what foolish logic he had used as justification but it mattered not. He lingered for several seconds simply content to savor the contact, then patiently began to move his lips against hers, coaxing her into a kiss. She did not respond, staying suspended and stationary, _wooden._ Doubt unfurled, he ruminated over whether he had misinterpreted her wishes, if lust's bias had colored his mind causing him to see desire where there was none. Maybe she didn't want this, didn't want _him_ ; _maybe_ it was not _his_ lips or body that featured in her dreams.

Slowly, painstakingly he broke away dragging her lip along, loath to detach from her; before he disengaged completely she seemingly awakened, her hands latching onto his shirt and tugging him back. Suddenly passion slipped its mooring, barreling forth loose and free, and he brought his mouth down upon hers zealously; whereas the first kiss had been gentle and tentative—an exploration of sorts—this was its total inverse, a heady urgency.

 _Lord_ , if glimpsing her unclothed hadn't been his undoing kissing this exquisite creature most assuredly would be; he was unbearably hard.

Desperate, _aching_ , Erik sought to learn every contour, every part of her ambrosial lips. She melted within the ardent flames of his need, malleable, conforming to his guidance, their mouths moving in a heated dance under his lead. His tongue traced the seam of her lips imploring admittance, they parted for him, petals spreading in leisurely bloom under the sun's enticing rays.

There was desire radiating from her every pore, he could taste it, her short, little exhales were fragrant with it. More than air he needed this, _needed her._ This was beautiful, wondrous torture. Christ, he would surely expire, devoured by his own hunger. His breath came in hot, heavy gasps punctuated by kisses. With a low, throaty sound he pressed her more forcefully against him, moulding her soft suppleness to the harsh angles of his body, letting Christine feel just how much he throbbed and burned, hand tangling in her hair. _And_ felt her fall as her legs again buckled.

 _Idiot! Brainless dolt!_

Was he such a lustful brute that he forgot her health? God, she had quite nearly drowned not five minutes earlier! Obviously she was still in shock, weakened from her harrowing experience, she required rest _not_ the advances of a lecher. Yet here he was forcing his own twisted cravings upon her callously. It was unlike him, in spite of his litany of horrible traits Erik was a compassionate lover. Whereas some men were amicable day-to-day but selfish in matters of romance, he could claim to be neither and supposed this a means of coping; to be both insensitive on both fronts would render him an outright beast and though he _was_ monstrous, he was not evil - not _wholly_ at least. Disgusted with himself and his failed restraint he severed their contact, apology in his eyes.

"Forgive me. _I..._ " he tapered off, removing the hand that had been enmeshed in her hair and raking it through his own.

 _Forgive him_ , why?

He had committed no offense, on the contrary he had shown her something incredible, _something_ she knew he felt every bit as keenly. Why should he harbor any uncertainty when she trembled, seeking a thing she could not name, that only _he_ could give her? Her nerves continued to blaze, a wildfire of sensation racing over a plain and gathering in an inferno below her stomach; she could still _feel_ , still _taste_ his lips upon hers, a searing brand upon her flesh. But head spinning and body leaden, Christine couldn't provoke her tongue into action and only stared at him aghast. He sighed, stepping away and leaving his embrace a sweet, loitering memory.

"We must go. _Can you—_ Do you need to be carried?" Amidst the chord of regret and pity in his tone, she rediscovered her voice; anger cleared her mind, restoring vigor to tired limbs.

"Are you sure? It wouldn't do to overtax yourself."

And swiftly she was back to wanting to strike him...

At last she understood why pity had stoked Erik's fury the night he removed his mask, indignation nearly as magnificent as what she just had felt in his arms roared to life within; her pride wounded she wrung the water from her shirttails, imagining it was his neck.

" _Quite_."

"If you require—"

"I won't." she cut in tersely.

"Nevertheless, _if_ you do... _ask._ " Erik's head cocked at her abrasiveness but he kept quiet, grabbing the few things that had survived the flood and walking off into the trees.

Though her legs were feeble, clumsy, and threatening to collapse, she could not— _would not_ —ask for his help even if it meant crawling to the docks, _not_ now. _No_ , it was unconscionable, she couldn't bear the humiliation nor had she any wish to.

* * *

 **So it's finally _on_. ;)  
**

 **Now we get to stand back and watch the glorious passion - _or shit-show_ \- unfold; knowing these two it could go either way. At any rate there's bound to be plenty of drama seeing as the two of them will be trapped upon a boat together, so nowhere to run.  
**

 **A/N: I mentioned this earlier but prior to Mt Peleé's historic 1902 eruption one of the indicators of the disaster were overflowing rivers, which would suddenly go dry and then burst their banks without warning or any rainfall; several people died as a result. Back then nobody paid a ton of mind because they had no idea what caused it; we now know that seismic activity was responsible. It was actually Child of Dreams who gave me the idea (shout-out!) by asking whether or not the characters would get caught in a tsunami. And, while I explained why I just couldn't go with that - mainly my being boring and a stickler for historical/scientific accuracy - it is a pretty close compromise and one that _actually_ occurred on rivers outside of Saint-Pierre. Granted there _was_ some artistic liberty taken because so far as I have read the southern end of the island was not affected but a touch of exaggeration I _can_ live with. **

**Fortuna was - as Raoul mentions - the Roman goddess of fortune and representation of luck. She was tied in with fate and could bring good or bad luck; this is where the concept of _Rota Fortunae_ or the Wheel of Fortune stems from. While the Wheel of Fortune became a popular concept in the Middle Ages, it appears in earlier works; the one excerpted in the first reference hails from scholar Otto Ribbeck's 1897 translation of the writings of Roman tragedian Marcus Pacuvius.**

 **The second reference some might recognize as being from Homer's, _The Illiad_ , and you'd be right! It _is_ from book XXI of _The Illiad_ , lines 233-240, and I thought quite apropos.**


	19. Eruption

_It was like a hurricane of fire, which rolled in mass straight down on St. Pierre and the shipping. The town vanished before our eyes and then the air grew stifling hot and we were in the thick of it. Wherever the mass of fire struck the sea, the water boiled and sent up great clouds of steam... Before the volcano burst, the landings at St. Pierre were crowded with people. After the explosion, not one living being was seen on land. . . ._

 _~ Thompson, Assistant Purser, SS Roraima_

 _All around on the deck were the dead and dying covered with boiling mud. There they lay, men, women and little children, and the appeals of the latter for water were heart-rending. When water was given them they could not swallow it, owing to their throats being filled with ashes or burnt with the heated air._

 _~ James Taylor, Cooper, SS Roraima_

 **8 May - Day 11 [After Dawn]**

It was a great mercy that the trek to the docks was short for Christine's legs were rapidly tiring. The village they passed through—a tiny collection of huts and shops—was still asleep but for a handful of workers, all of whom were easily avoided via a few overgrown footpaths. This time Erik did not offer his hand, instead plodding some feet ahead in the same manner he had during their trans-island expedition; she was glad for it, appreciative the terrain necessitated her full attention.

Preoccupation was the best escape from the poisonous, dizzying thoughts hounding her.

She could not stand to revisit that moment, not now or maybe _ever_.

Her limbs were unsteady enough as it was. Were she to reflect on _it_ what little remaining strength she retained would desert her and induce full collapse. To be touched by him would be _unbearable_ , she would die if he touched her _after..._ No, she couldn't bring herself to even _think_ the word, it was too much and too soon.

Throughout their walk a loaded quiescence persisted. Again Christine was thankful, hearing _that_ voice, that accursed, unnatural instrument of his, could prove every bit as dangerous - maybe more so - as his touch. Never had she considered silence more of a blessing.

Dawn had not yet arrived when they reached the boat meant to spirit them away, two refugees in the dying night. It was moored away from the five or so other vessels occupying the roadstead, not what one might call inconspicuous; immaculate lettering revealed her to be _Cornelia Anne_. Bigger and less shabby than she had imagined the ship bobbed up and down in the gentle harbor waves as if in welcome, equal parts comforting and daunting. She hesitated as she boarded, hovering mid-step in indecision, unnerved in the face of this new voyage, but then remembering what had just happened she planted her feet firmly on deck. Drawing a deep breath Christine took in her surroundings and - by extension - her destiny.

The vessel's crew was comprised of the taciturn, dubious sort she had come to expect after years spent around her father's ships. There were ten in total, most - save one or two - of them some years older than her; they accepted her presence with disinterest, nodding or grunting in acknowledgement before resuming their work. Certainly no one would make the mistake of deeming them a friendly lot! None but the captain spoke, a burly man on the wrong end of forty nearly Erik's height - _and twice his width_ \- with hair as bleached by the sun as his skin was browned. He extended a hand in greeting, his kind-yet-solemn dark green eyes studying her keenly, Christine gave it a timid shake; if he thought their wet clothing and haggard appearances strange he hid it well.

"I am Andries Lombaard, captain of _Cornelia Anne_ ; you may call me whatever you'd like." His voice was befitting of a man as large as he, a robust baritone containing an undercurrent of mirth to complement the twinkle in his eye, it was a welcome development following such a hectic start to the day. He smiled warmly.

"Christi—" Christine caught herself on the edge of an awkward cough. Not even two minutes in and she had almost ruined everything! " _Chris_ Daaé." she finished, settling on Raoul's nickname for her.

"A pleasure to have you aboard, _Chris._ " He winked, turning to the masked man beside her and uttering something in another language, the latter's lip twitched as he issued a quick reply in the same.

Theirs was a far more informal salutation compared to the respectful politeness with which she had been received, and as Captain Lombaard vigorously shook Erik's hand and - to her shock - clapped him on the shoulder Christine speculated furiously over their relationship unable to quash the jealousy that sprung up at the easy camaraderie they shared. He was _never_ this genial with her!

Surely they knew one another. That, or the man was mad and had no idea with whom he dealt. The mystery only deepened as the two fell into languid conversation in their mysterious shared tongue; on occasion she saw the captain's eyes dart in her direction and got the unsettling impression that _she_ was the subject of discussion, yet vigilant scrutiny notwithstanding Christine couldn't decipher a word. Having travelled about the Continent with papa during her formative years she was able to identify most every major language spoken but nothing about this one sounded familiar.

Then as quickly as it had began their discourse ended leaving her to flounder in frustrated ignorance. "Now I must see to my duties if we are to depart on schedule. I've had my men provide you with temporary quarters; Erik will show you to them. Should you need anything and cannot find me he can also act as your liaison." He gave a small bow of his head, the switch back to English effortless, and bustled off bellowing orders in what was indisputably Dutch.

"Andries originally hails from Southern Africa but, as you've noticed, is fluent in English and Dutch in addition to his native Afrikaans." A prompt response quelled her present confusion; she had forgotten he was there. Despite her inward gratitude Christine chided herself for being so transparent. Was she truly so easily read? She would do well to recall exactly _who_ her escort was, and of _what_ he was capable in future.

"Afrikaans?" she asked, clearing the hitch from her throat. Eventually curiosity overcame her hesitance at being alone with him and she draggled along at his heels like an overexcited puppy as he led the way below deck.

"It is the language of the Boers, evolved from Dutch vernacular and considered a daughter-language by linguists."

"Why do you know it?"

"I was in the Transvaal for the better part of two and a half years." Erik said by way of explanation, his mien quizzical as if it were abnormal to spend time in a country and _not_ learn the language. And maybe it _was_ for those not stationed in enemy territory during wartime, however circumstances being as they were she suspected the study of Afrikaans was somewhat of a rare pursuit amongst English soldiers. This line of thought bore her back to their initial meeting - _God, it seemed so long ago!_ \- to his statement that he spoke English 'among other things'. Clearly this 'other' included French and Afrikaans but now she wondered what _else_ it encompassed, if anything. How many tongues did he speak?

Oh, how she wished to know!

 _Oh, how remote she knew the chance of an answer to be..._

It was so quintessentially him, _so_ infuriatingly Erik. Just when Christine believed she had dissected him she was confronted with the paltriness of her knowledge; he was like the thrice-damned Hydra except rather than heads two more conundrums arose with every one solved, documenting them could have qualified as one of the Twelve Labors of Hercules.

Lost in thought and habituated to hiking for miles on end she forgot they were aboard a ship with limited space until she walked into him. Christine dispensed a hurried apology and fixated on a door to conceal the blush staining her cheeks.

"These are the crew's lodgings, you may use them until other sleeping arrangements are made, they should suffice in the interim."

"Thank you." Erik tilted his head.

"I had no part in the matter."

Lord, did he ever _not_ take things literally?

"Well then, pass my thanks on to Captain Lombaard if you'd be so kind." she returned peevishly, fretting over her damp shirt to ensure everything was properly bound and hidden. Though she had done a cursory check earlier there hadn't been time enough for a full appraisal, an enterprise she now executed. Christine felt his stare throughout this inspection, grinding her teeth in building agitation until at last she snapped. "Have you _something_ to say?"

His countenance held its usual infuriating impassivity and his eyes their typical smoulder saying what expressions—facial or verbal—did not. "Only that you may dispense with your ridiculous guise, Andries has already deduced you aren't what you claim."

Remarkable how a single sentence could bring the whole of everything to its knees.

Christine's eyes went wide with panic, her stomach plummeting as though she had leapt from a mountaintop; she slapped a palm against the wall to keep upright in spite of her wildly spinning head. Oh God, what would happen now? What potential horrors awaited her trapped at sea with nowhere to run?

At the beginning she had been terrified of the truth coming out, convinced it would lead to a fate worse than death - an impression her companion did nothing to allay during those first few days. In hindsight exposure was inevitable, she was just relieved it had happened before her midnight sojourn in the river. While she had—admittedly—been wrong about him, could the same be said for these sailors of whom she knew nothing? Erik was not the typical lawless rogue in that he had a moral code, an irregular one, granted, but it _did_ exist. However even she was not so naïve to think this the norm. Papa's words echoed within her mind in stark warning:

 _I'm sure you are not ignorant of the unsavory and wayward sort who find work aboard ships, if not from your novels then from my trade; half the time they are inebriated and the other half they are frequenting places of ill-repute. Why, an attractive young woman travelling alone would be akin to a trussed pheasant atop a serving platter to them!_

She squeezed the bridge of her nose to keep from vomiting; her heartbeat jolted into a full gallop; her hearing faded in and out; her vision tunnelled to a point. The world was shattering around her... Only when Christine registered the soft weight of his hand upon her shoulder did her nerves start to calm; from somewhere there was a command to breathe deeply.

Gradually her surroundings came back into focus; two more exhales and her pulse slowed no longer beating frantically within her ears; another and Christine was once again below deck on _Cornelia Anne_ , a concerned Erik regarding her cautiously.

"Christine." It was one word—her name—but she recognized it for what it was, an inquest, an order for clarification; her first attempt was a miserable failure, emerging jumbled and stuttered.

" _I-I..._ how _did—?_ "

"Contrary to your own supposition, little princess, you make a poorly passable boy. Andries realized immediately, your fumbled introduction notwithstanding, it was the first thing he said to me." At once her prior alarm progressed into rancor. She chuckled bitterly, seething with defensiveness at his condescension.

"What does that say about _you_ then? Doesn't reflect very highly on your lordship, does it?"

"I'll concede I was a fool to believe your subterfuge." Erik confessed with a shrug.

Vindicated by this surprising admission of fault Christine couldn't help but twist the knife a bit more. "Yet _you_ did so without question..."

"Oh, there were a great _many_ questions, don't delude yourself." he sneered, rising to her provocation, "Your voice, your figure, your fine features... You confound apathy with ignorance, I simply didn't care to delve any deeper until I could no longer ignore it, a spectacular blunder on your part. Had you kept silent and subdued your wanderlust your secret might have remained just that, but alas we shall never know courtesy of your—"

" _SHUT UP!_ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph is your arrogance boundless?!" Christine yelled clutching the sides of her head. Erik looked at her queerly but was otherwise nonchalant.

"You did not agonize previously." was his annoyingly rational, unfazed rejoinder, "Why is it a dire concern asudden?"

"I— _well,_ I knew you wouldn't take advantage of my situation and I cannot say the same for these unfamiliar men."

His eyes flashed heatedly, a desert wind blowing across an ocean, so intense she grew dizzy and averted her gaze. "Do you think I'd allow any man to lay a hand on you?" Certitude covered his tone like steel-plate, the fervor with which he spoke paralyzed, it was both terrifying and bracing. She swallowed heavily.

"E-Even so, h-how can you be sure they won't betray us?"

"Andries is trustworthy, of _that_ you can be assured."

"But, _how_ can you be positive?" she pressed, "Every man has his price, _what if—_ "

"Enough." The iron-edged note had returned to his voice, brooking no argument. "We share a history and that's all you need know." Once more intrigue tugged at the fringes of her thoughts, curiosity at his connection with the captain rekindled and burning an impatient hole in her chest.

"Now, perhaps it would be best if you were to recuperate after your fright..." It was _not_ a request, the lack of suggestion emphasized by his holding the door ajar; an action with two meanings this also served as the signal that their conversation had concluded - at least by his assessment.

Unfortunate, really, because Christine's interest was dreadfully piqued. Of course by now such a thing was commonplace. Each time she learned something about Erik it invoked his inevitable reticence and this promised to be no different.

Resentful of his perpetual secrecy she stepped into her makeshift cabin. The room was small and cramped, most of its space devoted to the bunks and storage climbing either wall, however it was tidy; a single porthole provided ample illumination, not bad in the slightest. Clean linens and a blanket of green wool lay neatly folded at the end of the leftmost bottom bunk. Yes, she could certainly live with this. In addition to the other furnishings was a basin crowned with a small looking glass, a table, and...

The metallic clink of a door closing interrupted her survey. She spun around at the noise finding herself alone but that was to be anticipated. What, had she believed he'd stay with her? Part of her longed for companionship, unused to being without for over a week, part of her thought the loneliness cruel and oppressive, _yet_ , a part that couldn't endure his presence or the mess of emotions it inspired there was also; the entire matter was a full-fledged conundrum. A lie down was definitely in order, especially given her head continued to swim in the aftermath of the morning.

It was better that he left her unattended, she recognized that, but it didn't dull the emptiness. And so she entered an eccentric sort of limbo wherein she both wished he had and had not gone. _Pathetic_ , a voice asserted.

Was a few hours absence truly so awful? He had disappeared for longer intervals. Ultimately good sense won out and her rampant thoughts settled. She would relax for a time and rejoin him at a less ghastly hour; perhaps she would nap. Besides she was free to come and go, it wasn't as though this was to be her cell! However a lock clicking into place soon indicated the contrary.

That _dastardly_ , _underhanded_ , _good-for-nothing..._

"WHAT IN THE HELL IS THIS, ERIK?!" she shouted, the full extent of her indignation muffled by the metal. His response came back equally muted, its insouciance salt on the wound.

"You are to remain below until we pass Saint-Pierre, it is for your own safety."

"My ... _safety?!_ How magnanimous! Whom must I thank for such benevolence?" Christine spat acerbically.

"It was a mutual decision between myself and Andries."

"And did you not think I'd wish to be consulted before being locked away like some animal in the ship's hold?!"

"I might have solicited your opinion were you not prone to such childish fits of melodrama. If you'd prefer the brig over the provided amenities, I can certainly oblige." Her subsequent screech reverberated off the metal walls, ringing loudly.

" _MELODRAMA?!_ Thus spake the man who's more changeable than weather!"

"My faults, be whatever they may, are _not_ germane, the only thing of relevance is your inability to heed even the simplest directive. As you cannot be relied upon to stay sequestered, I've resorted to tactics necessary for ensuring compliance."

"By jailing me as one would a prisoner!"

There was a pause and then, "Call it what you like, little princess, the situation will not change."

Anything else he had to say was lost to the din of pounding fists and kicking feet she loosed upon the metal barrier keeping her hostage.

 **o o o**

Fifteen minutes later Christine sank onto the bunk, flushed and winded, her wrath exhausted. Letting go one last cathartic shriek she sat back in begrudging acceptance. However, this new state was transitory, in short order she was back on her feet and unable to keep still; restless eyes scanning the empty room she located a thin metal bar. Not robust enough to force the door _but..._ she glanced at the porthole and an idea came to mind. It would serve well. She may be unable to be on deck but she wouldn't be denied fresh air!

Opening it proved easier than assumed, requiring scant effort. Christine smiled in triumph as the breeze ruffled her curls. True, it wasn't a victory per se but neither was it the same defeat as wallowing, waiting like a pitiless princess for a prince to scale the tower and deliver her from evil. That thought yielded a snort of laughter. Erik as a prince? A frog would be more convincing in the role, better mannered as well...

Her insight was further rewarded when she caught voices funnelling down from above. She identified them immediately, one belonged to _him_ and the other to the captain; by some weird turn - one beneficial to her - they were speaking not Afrikaans but English.

 ** _Did you hear about St Vincent?_**

 _No, my contact with the rest of the world has been sorely limited since landing on the island.  
_

 ** _Of course, I only thought you might have overheard something of it on the outskirts of the villages._**

 _I purposely kept away from civilization. I'd have made a piddling escort had I paraded the girl through every settlement we came across, I daresay. Besides, I hadn't any paper for a wanted sign detailing her identity and the price upon her head to hang round her neck.  
_

There was a sigh, accompanied by eye-rolling she presumed.

 ** _You know that is not at all what I meant..._**

 _Do I?_

 ** _You are just as intolerable as you were when we first met, you know.  
_**

 _It's one of my better traits if my charge is to be believed._ She pursed her lips at this. _What occurred on St Vincent? Get on with it, I haven't all day._ A low, hiss of breath escaped one of the men, she guessed it originated from Andries.

 ** _The volcano exploded two days ago, killed a great many natives they say._**

 _Another_ volcanic eruption.

This one major and on a less-populous neighboring island. A coincidence, undoubtedly. Volcanoes were _not_ akin to dominoes, just because one erupted did not mean the next would follow. Most of the Caribbean islands boasted at least one active volcano. Even so, Christine could not completely eradicate the disquiet knotting itself in the space between stomach and lungs nor was she willing to accept the misfortune of St Vincent as evidence of Martinique's doom. To Erik it was already fact, one he asserted many times over; he would indubitably take the information as validation of his foresight, but the locals insisted Peleé— _or La Montagne as they affectionately called it_ —posed no threat. As for herself she was undecided.

Once upon a time she had judged him paranoid, the kind of man who sees calamity in every shadow, and elected to favor the popular opinion; the earthquakes and La Montagne's two tantrums sowed a seed of doubt, one that grew with each tremor and came to a head this morning. Yet she was still not totally convinced.

Maybe it was denial. Maybe the capacity for disaster was too much to process; maybe Christine clung to hope because the alternative was far worse; _maybe_ the catastrophe on St Vincent wasn't a random fluke after all. Careful not to make a sound she pressed herself to the wall, turning her head sideways to better hear, and awaited the continuance of the exchange.

And waited.

And _waited some more..._

After several minutes of quiet it became clear nothing more would be gleaned. Disappointed, Christine sought some other diversion until the hour of her release. While clean and comfortable the cabin was largely devoid of amenities save those few belonging to crew members and she did not dare touch those. There were no books nor... _well_ , _much of anything, really._ What was she to do for amusement until her keeper freed her from her cage? She scowled at the reminder of her imprisonment.

With escape an impossibility - the porthole was too small for anything but a child - she laid down and stared at the ceiling above watching the morning sun cast shadows onto the metal, to and fro they danced flitting in hypnotic display. Calm, easy, restful. It was not long before her lazy mind was drawn back to that unspoken thing.

Erik had kissed her.

Her _first_ and _only_ kiss.

Good God, her _first_ kiss! And with Erik!

Christine flushed down to her chest to recollect, her entire body tingling as it had then. Again she felt trapped underwater, unable to break away from the crushing pressure of the deep, her ears burned, the blood throbbing within her skull in mimicry of a river poised to overflow; meanwhile her organs seemed as if they were being sucked into a whirlpool. Though she had no way of knowing with any degree of certainty, she didn't think her reaction normal. Weren't first kisses supposed to be awkward affairs of trial and error to be looked back upon and laughed at in later years? This did not feel right but neither did it feel wrong.

How could she be sure which it was? Admittedly her information on the subject was limited to novels and a single instance described by Meg.

The child of a French baron's youngest son and a baronet's daughter, Meg was everything Christine was not or wished she could be. Dainty, graceful, blue-eyed, blonde and fluent in the languages both parents she was the consummate fine lady of breeding, educated in all the proper subjects appropriate for one of her status and sex. However simmering under this prim façade was an inner fire, a side of Miss Margaret Élise Giry the world was not allowed to see. It was heartening that she was one of the permitted few aware of its existence and, at the same time, made her despair less over her own shortcomings. The conversation was easy to remember, the slivers of post-dawn sunlight glinting off the water reminiscent of the cheeky candlelit-sparkle in her friend's eyes as she recounted the tale late one summer night.

 ** _So what did you do in Paris?_**

Christine asked following Meg's first Season abroad, while her friend had visited France with regularity this marked the first year she was able to move within society having officially come out that spring.

 _All the usual things to which we're accustomed: balls, galas, salons, dinner parties..._

She opened her mouth to clarify that these were things which _Meg_ was used to, not her, but held her tongue.

 ** _And...?_**

At this, the blonde's gaze flickered with coy mischief, a small grin curving her lips, _...and became a woman._

Her eyes and mouth seemed in a competition to see which could open wider.

 ** _You mean...?_**

 _No, of course not! Fie upon your wicked mind, Christine Daaé!_ She smiled in jest. _It_ _was only a kiss._

 ** _A kiss?_** Christine repeated the word stupidly, **_With whom?_**

 _Well, you wouldn't know him if I told you his name!_ Meg pointed out logically. _But he was a vicomte._

 ** _A vicomte?_**

 _Yes, it's the French equivalent of a—_

 ** _Viscount, I know. My French isn't that terrible._**

 _It_ is _pretty awful, darling._

 ** _And here I call you my dearest friend..._**

Christine bristled in mock offense, causing the two of them to giggle. Once they both sported sore ribs and split sides she resumed her inquiry.

 ** _Well...?_**

 _Well, what?_

 ** _How was it? What was it like to be kissed?_ **

Meg tittered excitedly, her eyes narrowing.

 _It was kind of warm and soft and..._ Her nose wrinkled. _...wet._

 ** _Wet?_**

 _Yes, sort of akin to feeding an animal from your palm. At times I could scarcely breathe because it felt as though he was trying to eat my face and he nearly choked me with his tongue. I wiped myself clean with my handkerchief afterwards and had to throw it away because it was positively drenched in his drool!_

She retched slightly, offering her companion a sympathetic pat.

 ** _That sounds frightful._**

 _Oh, I don't know... True, it was a little revolting but not all bad. It was still incredibly romantic despite it being like allowing Nettie to lick your mouth...  
_

The referenced spaniel let out an approving bark as she ran circles on the bed. Once again they howled with laughter, Meg's impersonation of a smacking cow leaving each girl breathless.

From that point onward she had not spared kissing much thought, viewing it as over-romanticized mediocrity. And, frankly it _was_ fairly unappealing when one thought upon it. Exchanging saliva with another person? Smelling their breath and tasting what they had previously eaten? These images were the antithesis of enticing, instead of setting her heart aflutter they made her stomach lurch. So, unlike the other girls with flights of fancy in their empty heads Christine Daaé had shied away from rather than searching for her storybook prince, dreading not coveting his kiss.

Until _him._

Only then had she begun to _wonder_ , to challenge notions preconceived. The whole mess started three days ago when he pressed her to that tree. _Oh yes_ , she had wondered how it would feel to have those smirking, sneering lips upon her own. Would it be as described, all slobber and clumsiness? Somehow she hadn't thought so even in spite of her prejudice. Far removed from a bungling schoolboy as one could get Erik had no place in a fairy tale as a noble hero, if anything he was the desperado, the dark villain, his confidence tangible, his allure infectious, his every movement imbued with regal grace, surely he would differ from Meg's infamous vicomte.

Reality had far outstripped her imaginings.

 _That_ kiss, _his kiss_ , was ... electrifying. There was no other word for it, a combination of current both alternating and direct that flowed from her lips to the soles of her feet and ends of her hair. He tasted of dentifrice, mint and cloves. His lips were smooth, moist, not an ounce of drool; and his tongue did not choke her but did marvellous things.

Would his lips feel similarly blissful upon every other inch of skin? What of his hands, those agile musician's fingers that once brushed her bare thigh, how might they feel? And the things he had whispered about, those things dark and sinful of which he claimed to dream, how would _they_ feel? She gasped, hand fanning her scorched face. Holy Father in Heaven, if she kept with this line of thinking she would be company fit only for the most debauched of dockside harlots.

Thankfully the Almighty didn't consider her too far-gone and extended a reprieve from the assailing wickedness in the form of distraction. Just as silence had spawned her reverie, the lack of such promptly ended it. Again there were voices, snatches of words flitting through the porthole on an invisible breeze. Christine was beholden for the intervention.

 ** _Strange._**

 _What is?_

 ** _By my last reckoning we should have passed Fort-de-France yet it has been well over an hour since I last sighted another vessel; these waters are usually quite busy._**

It was Erik. If she closed her eyes she could picture the frown that assuredly creased his face beneath the mask, his cheeks drawn inward in thought, setting off his fine jaw. Lord, had she spent so much time in his company that she could envision his reactions?

What a sad decline this made for Christine Daaé...

 _I'm not off-course if that's what you're suggesting._ The response was delivered with an air of playful discontent, banter between friends; it was bizarre to see this side of him. _You forget that I was navigating before you could walk, Grey._

 ** _Over_ land _, it's a spot more difficult on the water with no bearings of which to speak._** came the all-too predictable retort garnished with a pinch of derision. Somehow Captain Lombaard ignored this, his fortitude obviously surpassed her own. Based on her observations thus far Andries tolerated Erik admirably. Mayhap his patience might even be classified as medal-worthy and doubtlessly would be _if_ bearing with the vexing masked man were an officially sanctioned sport. And some days - _a majority of the time_ \- this was every bit as taxing and exhausting as the most strenuous of athletic endeavors.

 _I don't predict you'll see many ships the closer we get to Saint-Pierre, they've closed the port. No ships allowed out, you see, some shite about order and minimizing panic. I doubt any seaman worth a damn would venture anywhere near that roadstead._

 ** _How did you come by this information?_**

Erik's tone had turned sharp, deadly serious, gone was the haughtiness, the sarcasm; the other man didn't come across as concerned but she knew better. He only adopted such opaque austerity on a few occasions, each one more dire than the last, to hear it now was distressing. Rattled, uncaring, and reckless because of this, Christine practically hung her head out of the porthole to eavesdrop.

 **o o o**

"Another captain, an Italian, came from Saint-Pierre yesterday. He stopped-over in Sainte-Anne for supplies before all-but fleeing, said that the port authorities refused to let him sail, even went so far as to threaten him with arrest but he ignored them. Told us we should follow his example and get the hell off the island, kept going on about that blasted mountain. Crazy old sod, dramatic and soft-headed like most of his countrymen if you ask me..."

Erik made a noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat but said nothing further. By one of those queer ironies determined to consistently hound him he was grateful for his mask, were anyone to see the gravity of his expression there would be discomfiture and nerves begot careless mistakes. He turned his eyes to Peleé's summit, visible off the starboard side, her every billow of smoke striking a chord of grim foreboding in his mind. _Something_ was present in the stillness of air, something ruthless and lethal, he recognized the static premonition as that which he had first encountered in India, the too-perfect serenity that preceded an animal attack. Just as he could then, he detected the faint stench of insincerity in the seemingly guileless sunny weather, a false calm.

With every minute his unease grew; with every mile another hair stood on end; with every revolution of the propeller the warning siren of impending disaster was sounded, a long, plaintive drone. Desperate for a reprieve Erik decided to pay a visit to Christine; it was some time after seven o'clock, she would likely be hungry. After consulting a crewman he located everything needed to put together a halfway decent meal in short-order. He was sure to knock before entering, having no desire to intrude should she be indecent. Well, that was _technically_ untrue... he had _every_ desire to happen upon her in the height of indecency but such was currently incommodious; and so close on the heels of what had transpired mere hours ago, maintaining even a semblance of restraint was improbable.

"Oh, what _is_ it?" The exasperated reply not the silence he had expected but neither did it grant entrance. Erik scowled, he hadn't intended on talking - better that he stay mute to avert further conflict - and some sense of absurd latent propriety hinged upon her invitation, which, given the circumstances, he was unlikely to receive.

"Breakfast."

Nothing.

Nothing for a long while, entirely _too_ long for the already degraded nerves of a man who was, at his best, impatient. With each minute elapsed grew the temptation to reach into his pocket for the key. Devil take her privacy! His presence was no secret if she was ... _indisposed_ it was entirely her fault and any consequences she reaped would be as well. Yet, charging into the cabin would only worsen things. It was indisputable fact, proof enough could be found on each occasion - _and there were many_ , Erik was reluctant to note - he had acted on the impulse of temper. His erstwhile impetuosity had won him no favors, only putting more strain on their fragile rapport. And - for whatever foolish, inconceivable reason - he cared about such nonsense, or perchance he was too fatigued to quarrel, whichever it was he didn't know but it _was_ unquestionably aggravating.

Finally a huff - here he could envision the resigned displeasure gracing her face, conviction in her glare, how the harshness looked ill-at-ease on her pretty features; it inspired the hint of a smile - and a protracted sigh.

"Enter, then." There was a petulant whine to her voice that set his teeth on edge, though he ignored it and opened the door. Erik studied the open porthole with mild interest but made no comment.

"Come to ensure your prisoner hasn't fled?" she jeered, her stance matching her tone for belligerence, arms crossed over her chest in challenge. So, it was to be like _this_. Naturally he couldn't blame her, although that knowledge didn't improve his frame of mind. He offered a prayer to any deity who happened to be listening to bolster his restraint, by God he'd need all the help he could get.

"Had I known you were a prisoner, I wouldn't have troubled myself over your breakfast."

"Breakfast?" Christine reiterated. "And here I believed you had locked me away to starve."

"As always your fatuity comes as no great surprise." he drawled. She gave an irritating little sniffle, glancing surreptitiously at the platter he held.

"Should I anticipate the customary fare of moldy bread crust and green cheese?"

"Fresh fruit and sausage. Unless of course you'd prefer a more _unappetizing_ alternative..." he trailed off his brow raised.

Instantly her mood shifted from hostility to complaisance and Erik rolled his eyes at the fickleness of women. He set the food upon the little table, watching her fall upon it as she did every morning; over time he had come to find the habit endearing, like witnessing a small puppy devour a whole roast chicken.

"Where are we?" The words came garbled through mouthfuls of sausage.

"Nearly upon Saint-Pierre, I should think."

Her countenance fell the barest amount, wistfully she twirled an errant curl round her finger. "I would have liked to see it one last time, Martinique was such a beautiful place."

"It is unwise to go on deck."

She jumped up, her meal forgotten, renewed anger contorting her face into a snarl. "So I'm to stay trapped below all day like a rat, is that it?"

"All day? _Hardly._ " Erik scoffed in his characteristically smug way, reclining against the wall. "It's not yet eight in the morning; _i_ _n fact_ , it is seven forty-nine."

Christine fought the urge to scream and throw things at him, to launch herself upon him fists flailing. Maybe she should lock him in a small space for hours on end whilst citing it to be for his benefit, that was a _fine_ idea! See how much he enjoyed being treated like a captive. The day had barely begun and already he was driving her to the brink of sanity. There was no getting on with this man! She opened her mouth to speak, every trace of frustration, perplexity, and resentment that had accumulated since waking melded into a great leaden ball in her stomach, begging to be unleashed when the rattling started.

Both turned towards the noise, discovering the platter on the table to be the culprit. The brewing feud between them momentarily set aside, they exchanged a puzzled look; however, the entire conversation was promptly discarded when all was engulfed by a deafening blast. It was as if someone had fired a two-bore rifle indoors.

Dazed, ears ringing at unbearable pitch, Christine scanned the room for what could only have been the result of a small cannon; the second boom was louder were it possible.

Wincing, she turned to Erik and for the second time that morning, in a meager span of hours, knew terror in its purest form. All color had drained from those parts not covered by the mask but his eyes were what _truly_ haunted, incandescent twin crystal balls, windows to the cataclysm; they were the last thing she saw before he tore from the room and she blindly sped after him.

Two more booming reports sounded as they sprinted above, so intense they resounded deep within her chest. Everything became a blur of tactile sensation rendering her a running, panting shell—she heard no longer; saw no longer; thought no longer—propelled through the ship by some unidentifiable instinctive source.

Not the vividest imagination nor most fantastical work of fiction could prepare them for the sight upon reaching the deck.

Surreal. Supernatural. Horrifying.

Mount Peleé stood in the distance her summit transformed into columns of vengeful orange flame that shot skywards. Huge, viscous clouds of ash belched forth as black as the void. La Montagne was alive, a gigantic mass of flames and smoke, its roar so thunderous that Christine was positive it shook the earth to its very core. The whole of the image looked as though a portal to the deepest bowels of hell had opened upon the mountain's peak.

Not a person moved on deck, not a person spoke. Every soul aboard stared transfixed, a garden of statues blankly witnessing the end of days they stood in a line at the railing watching dumbstruck as everything went still. She placed a hand over her thumping heart during the lapse. Was it over? This question was at the forefront of everyone's mind, written upon each of their faces, all except _one._ Erik's demeanor had settled into funereal austerity, his face like carved stone, it was the look of one watching a ship founder from the cliffs above unable to intervene.

Comprehension dawned.

 _And she waited..._ rising tide of fright almost entirely inundating her.

There was nothing to be done.

She could not bring herself to watch yet neither could she turn away held in morbid thrall as she was. So, she commenced counting in her head as she had done during the last eruption, during that long-ago time in the cave.

 _One one-thousand, Two one-thousand, Three one-thousand ... Seven one-thousand, Eight one-thousand..._

Another rumble, this one felt underfoot, jolting everything upon the deck that wasn't secured. Twelve people simultaneously held their breath.

 _Ten one-thousand, Eleven one-thousand..._

The volcano belched an enormous cloud with sudden ferocity. Upwards, outwards, it ripped from every direction, a massive black flower in glorious bloom; the surrounding air and sky shimmered, stretching as if an invisible giant was pushing against it, the clouds scattering like ninepins. Magnificent, stupefying, immense and completely soundless. How was that possible when the antecedent explosions were comparable to mortar bombs?

Her mulling was interrupted when two pairs of hands fastened tightly over her ears, it took her a bit to realize one set was her own, Erik held them in place until she grasped the unspoken command then covered his; the sailors did the same. La Montagne shivered, a rippling effect racing down her every side kicking up dust in its wake. Time itself appeared suspended, the moment captured in an indelible snapshot. Other than the still-blossoming cloud, almost tranquil as it billowed, nothing moved. Their boat hovered inside of this frozen reality, the image resembled a photograph and Christine swore, were she to reach out, she could touch it; then the sound came.

A stupendous and sonorous explosion, the loudest noise she had ever heard, one so deafening her head throbbed and her brain felt like it was being liquefied, it tore through the air in an unseen wave, jostling the boat as it smacked into them and whooshed rapidly past. Her mental count ticked on.

 _Forty-eight one-thousand, Forty-nine one-thousand, Fifty one-thousand..._

Upon Peleé's southern side a grievous wound opened, a ripping, expanding rift that all-at-once collapsed into itself; she hemorrhaged tremendous puffs of black vapor, her lifeblood spurting thick in every direction, filling the sky. Mortally wounded, the mountain writhed in the throes of death sending clouds hurtling down her flanks toward Saint-Pierre with the speed of an oncoming locomotive. Faster and faster this terrible surge rushed, tumbling over and over, crackling electricity sparking within its nebulous folds in pernicious delight. Naught could match its power. Trees, boulders, and rivers alike were snapped up as it charged nearer the quaint Caribbean town, one goal in mind.

And, just like that the so-called 'Little Paris' of the Antilles was no more, a bustling center of life engulfed and extinguished.

It didn't end there.

Wicked, hell-bent on destroying all in its path the smoking deluge continued, swallowing the little harbor. Huge balls of flame popped like gunshots in its belly but it did not halt. By now the sun had disappeared, devoured by the endlessly spreading plume from above. Total darkness fell over land and sea alike, a huge tenebrous umbrella. The vague but insistent orange glow of fire was the only thing visible in the haze.

Death was present.

The air stank with the fetor of evacuated bowels, putrid and sulfurous, Death's unique perfume was ubiquitous and smothering. Saint-Pierre had been wiped from the face of the earth, tens of thousands of souls incinerated in an instant; Saint-Pierre, the town she had dreamt of visiting since reading Lafcadio Hearn's writings about his time in the West Indies, the town he had once described with such affectionate splendor was obliterated, the unfortunate victim of her beloved La Montagne. She saw his alluring words in her head.

 _Everybody in a costume of more than Oriental picturesqueness … Astonishments of half-breed beauty … Men wearing only white canvas trousers, and immense hats of bamboo grass,—men naked to the waist and muscled like sculptures. Some are very black: others are of strange and beautiful colors: there are skins of gold, of brown bronze, and of ruddy bronze. The stones whisper under the naked feet. Women pass in robes of brilliant hues,—women of the color of fruit, orange-color, banana-color,—women wearing turbans with just such burning yellow as bars the belly of a wasp … The warm air is thick with the scents of sugar and cinnamon,—with odors of mangoes and custard-apples, of guava jelly and of fresh coconut milk,—a grand tepid wind enveloping the city in one perpetual perfumed caress._

All were dead.

Every half-naked native in their Grecian glory, every woman wrapped in exotic garb, every delectable scent, each brilliant flower and plant with their hues rivalling the colorful people who walked amongst them, all were gone. This was a kingdom of ashes and charred bones. Unlike the mystical phoenix from legend there would be no resurrection for Saint-Pierre. The temperature had reached a swelter and from the gloom hot pebbles of pumice rained down hissing as they plunked into the sea. Shaking and weak with macabre epiphany Christine grappled for the ship's railing, for _any_ steadying object; instead she was drawn into a strong embrace, it coddled and shielded her from the horror, assured her everything would be fine. From the vacuity a voice boomed, unflinching and firm.

 ** _How far are we from shore?_**

 _Eight or ten miles by last reckoning._

 ** _Take her out to sea, Andries, before we join those poor devils on land._**

Out to sea?

Were they to retreat in cowardice? Would they offer no aid?

 _NO!_

A third voice had joined the other two, piercing the air in a desperate wail. Seconds passed before Christine understood it had come from her; she stood upon the deck wild and panting, _rabid_ , no longer sheltered in the cocoon of Erik's making. Everybody stared at her: some wearily, some indifferent, some sympathetically. Clearing her throat she altered her tone into a warbling pretense of evenness.

"W-We _must_ go back and check for survivors! There could be people in need, _we m-must..._ " Again those wonderfully tender arms swaddled her and the rest of her words dwindled, replaced by tears. "N-No. We _cannot..._ " On her lips the feeble protest flickered and died as the vessel turned towards open ocean. Her fading cries and the steady chug of the engines were the last sounds that reached her ears, elongated and echoing.

Dimly did she perceive herself falling and then Christine Daaé knew no more.

* * *

 **Okay, so everything goes below in this chapter so as to not disturb the formatting.**

 **Child of Dreams - My, that is a lengthy review! Does this mean you are unhappy with the compromise? Just to set the record straight, though, I never claimed there was no tsunami; in fact the one occurring on 5 May 1902 (that which you describe) was mentioned in the beginning part of chapter 17 during Raoul's POV and cited as the impetus for his leaving Martinique.**

 **Tsunamis are generated by displacement: landslides and undersea seismicity being the primary factors responsible. The tsunami to which you refer was the direct result of the first, the combination of water and mud flowing down the mountain - what we today refer to as a lahar) brought tons upon tons of debris crashing into the sea and created a 10ft wave which hit Saint-Pierre. There is a bit of geographical difference between Saint-Pierre (where our characters started) and Sainte-Anne (where our characters are), the former is on the northwest side of Martinique at the foot of Mt Peleé whereas the latter is at the opposite end of the island. True, there was an earthquake in the last chapter; true, this could have caused displacement if there were anything to displace but seeing as there are no nearby mountains or cliffs, such would have been nearly impossible.**  
 **Which brings me to the second factor: seismic activity in the ocean. I will concede a tsunami one would have been possible given plate tectonics - the South American plate is subducted under the Caribbean pate - called the Lesser Antilles subduction zone, these types of plate boundaries account for undersea earthquakes and sometimes spawn tsunamis although the chances of this happening and hitting Sainte-Anne are remote; also it would have had nothing to do with Mt Peleé's eruption.**

 **Finally the 10ft tsunami was minimal compared with the lahar. As I've explained previously the chances for survival during a large tsunami would have been slim and even if the characters did live it would be days, weeks maybe, before they would be able to get off the island and that's assuming neither succumbed to the secondary problems wrought in the wake of natural disasters. You know, things like disease, exposure, lack of fresh water and food, injury, etc. Keep in mind back in the day there was no quick, reliable communication system nor worldwide disaster relief efforts. So despite the tsunami being probable there were far too many variables for which to account in the immediate aftermath and it didn't fit with the story progression.**

 ***Big thanks to all of my reviewers and welcome aboard, cotesgoat! I'm glad you are feeling the tension because it's just going to escalate. Bahaha, _oh the things I have planned... ;)_**

 **A/N: First off, sorry for the enormous delay, September was a hectic month! I started a new job, weathered the fallout from hurricane Irma (nothing big was damaged), had a birthday, and somehow came down with pneumonia; I didn't need to be hospitalized or anything but I was miserable for a few weeks there. This chapter was done, I was just too loopy from a combination of illness and medicine to edit anything worth a damn. But, I'm _finally_ back to my old self again and able to think clearly enough to write. Yay!**

 **Now, onto the facts:**

 ***** **The eruption of Mt Peleé at 7:50 am on 8 May 1902 decimated the town of Saint-Pierre, killing over 30,000 people in the worst volcanic disaster of the twentieth century; it was so deadly that it received its own eruption classification: Peléan. Clouds of super-heated gases, ash, and debris roared down the sides of the mountain at high speed and incinerated all in their path including the harbor and the eighteen ships within, causing the sea itself to boil, they continued for five miles into the ocean before losing momentum and dissipating. Two years later French geologist Alfred Lacroix dubbed this phenomenon, 'nuée ardente' (burning or glowing cloud) in his account of the disaster. Today we know them as pyroclastic flows and they accompany history's most violent eruptions: Mount St Helens (1980), Vesuvius (79 A.D.), Krakatoa (1883), Mt Unzen (1991), Soufrière Hills (1997). Saint-Pierre burned for days following the eruption making it almost impossible for rescuers to make landfall. There were very few survivors, most of whom suffered horrific burns. The only silver lining to come of such a cataclysm was that the tragedy inspired a new era of volcanic research, scientists finally dedicated their lives to understanding such geological occurrences, identifying early warning signs, consequences, and at-risk areas to prevent further tragedies on the level of Peleé.**

 ***The quotes at the beginning are from two of the handful of survivors in Saint-Pierre's harbor that morning. _Roriama_ was a Canadian steamer and one of eighteen vessels to experience the eruption firsthand, sixteen of the other ships capsized immediately in the eruption's shock wave while _Roriama_ caught fire, twenty-eight of her crew (including the captain) and all of her passengers save two - a Creole nurse and small child - were killed in the pyroclastic flow; the small group of survivors in the harbor also experienced severe burns. _Roriama_ was eventually lost and still rests in the harbor today.**

 ***The excerpt is from Lafcadio Hearn's 1890 memoir, _Two Years in the West Indies._**

 ***So the anomaly that Christine describes when the mountain erupts was actually a sonic boom, i.e. when an object 'breaks' the sound barrier by moving faster than sound. Most of you are probably familiar with the term where jets are concerned but thunder and some explosions (fireworks) and eruptions are also examples of this. Now obviously our characters are passing close enough inshore to see the eruption and Saint-Pierre, I also noted that the pyroclastic flows destroyed things five miles out to sea. However, rest assured that everybody is safe and sound because they were out of harm's way. If you notice Christine's counting there is roughly a 37 second lapse between her seeing and hearing the eruption. The speed of sound is 340 m/s at 32 degrees F in dry air, however humidity and temperature affect this value, so using the average early morning temperature for May in Martinique, air pressure, and humidity I calculated the actual speed of sound to be somewhere around 348.96 m/s. Now we multiply that by 37 s and get 12,911.52 m (a m is 0.000621 of a mi) so we multiply 12,911.52 m by 0.000621 and get 8.02 mi, which means their ship is roughly 8 miles away from the coast and therefore out of harm's way.**

 **Right, well now that you are all sufficiently bored... Rate and Review? :)**


	20. An Aftermath of Surprises

**A/N: I'm back! Yeah, so I said I'd never split chapters in this fic because I wanted it to go day-by-day but I also thought I'd be able to update regularly. Silly me! I am awful, I know. I've been sitting on this chapter for so long and have revised it more times than I can count. I am a perfectionist and spent hours re-reading and tweaking this and that, I really wanted to portray that awkward place our characters are in, the sort of lull between growing to like someone and actually acknowledging your feelings have evolved. At last I am satisfied with it, as much as I can be, and now I pass it on to all of you at 3 am EST, lol. I needed to put some good into the world after GA blew the National Championships.  
**

 **cotesgoat - I'm glad I've piqued your interest in volcanology! I've always been fascinated by volcanoes but too afraid to actually venture near one, lol.**

 **Capenoires - Happy you like the story! Yeah, as for the Christine passing as a boy thing, it was only because nobody paid much attention to her. The people along for her botany trip were far too engrossed in their own affairs. As for Erik, I think I covered that topic sufficiently (he even admits he was dumb!). As to the knife I wanted Erik to be like, "Bahaha, what are you doing, girl?!" but as your writer I had to be a smidgen more professional than that. ;) You'll find out about the 'love' allusion soon enough, it may surprise you!**

 **Guest - I got you but be careful what you wish for, haha.**

 **Amelia Mariee - Thank you! I suppose you'll find out how they deal with it once you read, yes? :)**

 **Me - Well, you've _finally_ got your wish. **

**Sarah Chagal - THEY DID. Probably another kiss coming soon. _Probably._ ;)**

 **ciara15237 - Ta-da! Another update!  
**

 **Ann Faith - I've heard your prayers and wait no more!**

* * *

 **8 May [Post-Eruption]**

Hours - _or maybe days_ \- marched by before exhaustion relinquished its grip long enough for Christine to rally. Sleepily she blinked, the funk of melancholia still enshrouding her, not bothering to question _why_ she lay within an actual bed in a place three times larger than the crew quarters of which she had been allowed temporary run. Bedecked with various homey trappings this room was far less sterile and far _more_ welcoming than the last. No modest bunks or storage lockers lined the walls but instead furniture, there was even a rug of a foreign pattern _—_ Oriental, she guessed _—_ adorning the floor. Shadows abounded in the glow of a single lantern its flickering light warring courageously to keep the void outside from creeping in.

It was remarkably and refreshingly cosy, _wherever_ it was...

If not for the faint chug of engines in the background she might have thought herself ensconced within the confines of some comfy hotel. So where on the ship was she and _why_? Were these the aforementioned more 'permanent' lodgings? They struck her as too grand for the likes of a guest. However, women weren't a typical matter-of-course upon trawlers and Captain Lombaard _had_ come across as charitable, mayhap she was given superior accommodations by virtue of her sex. _Or_ , perhaps his reasoning was more sinister than altruistic.

As a girl Christine had learnt a medley of sailors' superstitions, having a woman aboard a merchant vessel was considered bad luck. Once she'd overheard an old, toothless seaman proclaim females angered the sea gods, spelling disaster for any ship that harbored them. An archaic and preposterous credo to be sure and one upheld by many nevertheless. Maybe it was an offering of sorts, an appeasement to whatever vengeful spirits might lay a curse upon _Cornelia Anne_ for violating this hallowed mariner's rule. Yet if the lived-in ambiance was any indication this wasn't merely a chamber reserved for the rare, dignified visitor but rather _someone's_ cabin. But, _whose?_ She stirred, insatiably curious, stretching the sensation back into drowsy limbs.

"You're awake."

Christine nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound having assumed she was quite alone. Upon recovering she was thankful the voice belonged to Erik and not a stranger. Even so, the heat of embarrassment lingered about singeing her face and earlobes. How had she overlooked him? Had he been here all the while? While a touching prospect the modest maiden within cringed, to be under the scrutiny of a man in such a state of vulnerability was paralyzing and more than she could currently process. Flustered, she sat up - a task rendered difficult by her rushing head - pulling the blankets to her chin in a show of prudery. A full minute passed before she managed to respond.

"W-Where am I? _That is,_ " She cleared her throat, it was terribly dry. "I mean, _w-which_ part of the ship _—_ " Christine gagged and clawed at her neck, the arid patch inhibiting speech unwilling to dislodge.

Erik thrust a glass of water towards her. "Here, drink."

She drained the contents in one gulp, the cool liquid was a godsend and she downed a second glass delighting in its restorative effects. His gaze never once strayed from her, and, had she not been preoccupied the intensity with which he stared could well have induced a spell of the vapors. Not in _her_ , of course, but Christine could easily imagine some flighty, scatterbrained mademoiselle being toppled by such a look. Oddly the idea of someone else as the recipient chafed, she couldn't account for why this was when days ago she'd have laughed.

"You are in the captain's own cabin, Andries was kind enough to forsake it for your benefit." With the return to the subject at hand this erstwhile puzzle was promptly shoved aside and the bizarre conundrum dissolved to dust. Although Christine reflected no further on what had almost mimicked jealousy she only grasped bits of Erik's reply, certain words stood out, words like: _captain, own, cabin, forsake._ And it hit her.

 _This_ was Captain Lombaard's cabin!

Immediately Christine was assailed by an admixture of remorse and chagrin, the captain had given the impression of goodness but to offer his own bed to a girl he didn't know - _well_ , it was _too_ generous. Motivated by chivalry, she supposed, this did not lessen her feeling like a dreadful imposition. "F-Forsake it? Oh, I hope he didn't mean to relinquish it for the whole journey, I couldn't accept such largesse."

"Strangely in the midst of fire and brimstone he didn't elaborate on the minutiae of his overture, an oversight I'm _sure_..."

" _Sarcasm..._ " Christine muttered, her mouth a thin, humorless line; confused and light-headed as she was she hadn't the patience for Erik's favored brand of discourse.

"You noticed?" he remarked dryly, raising a brow; she ignored him.

"What happened? We were on deck and there was ash falling, heaps of it. Everything was so dark, the heat was unbearable, then the world began to tilt..."

"You collapsed."

 _Collapsed._

The word penetrated with the needle-sharp efficacy of a serpent's fang discharging the potent venom of shame, it swept rapidly through her system. What a credit she was to her sex, gasping and swooning, all skirts, petticoats and frailty! She'd become the exact thing she despised, become the fainting damsel in the macabre tales of Walpole and Lewis. Overcome with self-contempt she averted her eyes, twin spots of pink glowing high on her cheekbones. More mortifying still _he_ had witnessed her syncope. A stab of regret erupted from somewhere within over her choice in sciences, would that she could have devoted her mind to the study of refraction as the protagonist, Griffin, had done in, _The Invisible Man._ Invisibility would have proven an infinitely more useful skill. That, Griffin, had succeeded only in becoming invisible and failed in reversing the process was inconsequential, a problem for tomorrow. Vanishing altogether was too pleasing of a prospect!

" _Christine,_ " There was a slight hesitance in the way he spoke her name, a whit of discomfort, like the tone one adopted when talking to the feeble. Probably because he _did_ think her infirm. "It is nothing of which you should be ashamed." His comment was received with umbrage hedging on grave offense. Why didn't he cite the _truth_ , that she was pitiful and weak? It was no secret! Let Erik declare her a hysteric or timorous child as he obviously wanted to do! Why did he toy with her? Where was his usual suffocating hauteur? She preferred his bluntness, _deserved_ the courtesy of it already, anything less was insulting.

" _Oh?_ Tell me, did someone _else_ keel over?"

"Given the circumstances any person _could_ have _—_ "

"But _they_ didn't, just me." She speared him with a caustic glare, leaving no doubt as to how much she abhorred these platitudes tailored to flatter delicate constitutions.

"And _none_ endured what you did this morning," he persisted, "if anyone aboard had an excuse to faint it was you."

Instantaneously Christine was on her feet in challenge. Her dissent had been building since he first materialized catching her off-guard, unnerving her with his stare and precipitating these alien feelings, she knew not what to make of them or the marginally sympathetic way in which he had addressed her. In the absence of a reason she grew enraged. What sort of game was he playing at her expense? Game it _had_ to be, Erik did nothing without calculated intent. Damn him and his incessant mockery! Confronting the Devil himself would have been wiser in all likelihood but anger made her bold and anger made her foolish.

"What would _you_ know of it?!" she snapped, "You faced worse and kept upright. Do not lecture me on how I should feel when you couldn't possibly understand!"

And now he too was standing, gazing down at her imperiously, his arms folded, ready to meet any defiance she dealt. The combined tension of their impasse held everything in a thrall, _nothing_ moved: the lantern's flame stood inert, no specks of dust circulated, all shadows froze in place, neither breathed or blinked, the atmosphere itself paused _watching_ and _waiting._

"Do you presume yourself alone, that _you're_ the only one to have ever had such an experience?" Erik hissed, "Do you presume _I_ found it any less humiliating?"

Had he divulged this was the year 2100 and named her Master of the Earth it wouldn't have been _half_ as shocking. What anomaly _—_ natural or divine _—_ possessed the power to strike Erik unconscious?

" _Y-You... You've_ swooned b-before?" He scoffed bitterly.

"I daresay poison can have that effect."

" _P-Poisoned?!_ But, you're _s-s-still—_ " Christine swallowed heavily unable to finish, where moments prior there had been desert, there was a thick knot. Erik was similarly impacted, a grim change washed over him, aging him years in scant seconds. Within his eyes rested the weight of a thousand worlds.

"Poison is a versatile tool in skillful hands, death is not always the sole outcome or purpose."

Another awkward idyll descended, the magnitude of his revelation putting words beyond the pale, for the first time since meeting Erik she broke with the nagging urge to pry. Dear God, what hell had he lived through? Some nameless force made her reach out and seek his hand in a gesture of comfort. The trance shattered at the contact of her fingers and he whirled away retreating with a mumbled excuse, something about food she believed...

"Oh, _Erik_ ," she whispered sadly, "why must you always run?"

 **o o o**

Effectively abandoned with only her thoughts for company, Christine heaved a sigh and availed herself of one of the novels occupying her bedside table. An eclectic handful, they ranged from Burke to Dickens, titles in which she'd have normally revelled but today called for a change, a _happier denouement_. Luckily just the ticket sat within the stack. She picked up her selection tenderly, fingers tracing the coarse buckram cloth with a lover's attentiveness, the weight of the thing was nothing short of marvellous in hand and her heart clenched painfully to be reunited. Well on two weeks had elapsed since she'd truly known the leisure of a book. Of course she had her field guide on flora, which, while interesting, was a poor substitute for prose, and then there had been the bedraggled old Hugo that tumbled from Erik's pack, a rather ancient edition in the author's original French, however, her lamentable deficiency in the language made appreciation impossible, even _if_ she was of a mind to ask to borrow it.

No, this was her only opportunity in so many weeks to actually _savor_ literature as she had— _and religiously too_ —in Oxfordshire, to devote the care of a scrupulous reading to these masterpieces of written word. After the poignant interlude waned she dived into the book with frenzied hunger, her world dwindling to the printed lines upon each page, and fell deaf to all else.

"Gaskell? How _unexpected._ " At first Christine remained so absorbed in the text that she believed _it_ to be the origin of the voice! By-and-by she realized how silly this was and looked up from her prize, though she was loath to have done.

"I didn't hear you come in. Sorry, I often forget myself whilst reading." A touch of color came to her face at the explanation of her conduct, which, it dawned on her, must have appeared rude. _Not_ that his opinion was important - _particularly_ given his locking her away earlier - but blatant impoliteness was a base repayment for the care he had shown her since and she'd been raised to be above pettiness. Never mind that Erik was no paragon of manners himself and likely wouldn't value or notice her tact.

"So I've observed..." he said with amusement.

More blush stained her cheeks when she understood the implication of his statement. How long had he stood there watching her? It was presumptuous of him, yes, but she brought it upon herself. Here was her punishment for incivility! She couldn't argue it unwarranted. No, she hadn't the right to be irate but neither was she pleased. She didn't _have_ to be pleased. The notion of being under Erik's perusal for _any_ duration greatly rattled her, as it had when she awakened.

"You should have spoken up sooner if I kept you waiting."

"You didn't." The light of mirth lived on in the blue of his irises. "At any rate, I was not lacking for _entertainment_."

At this she balked, drawing herself up insolently in bed. "Does it _entertain_ you to spy upon the unwitting?"

"Not usually, however, you do _sometimes_ make an intriguing subject, young Daaé."

"W-What do you mean by that?"

Although a smirk graced his lips he didn't elaborate, instead veering onto a divergent topic. "It's well past luncheon but I've managed to find a decent array. Are you hungry?" She nodded eagerly, her stomach announcing with a rumble exactly how empty it was.

They ate mostly in silence, Christine was stunned - no, that was an inferior descriptor but she could conjure nothing better - to hear it confirmed that he had kept vigil by her side the entire time she was insensible. A guilty pang shot through her to realize again what a burden she was to those around her. When she prodded for a motive he gave the same infuriatingly curt account as was his customary wont, that as the one entrusted with her safety such was his responsibility.

On her life she couldn't say why this, like the image of him with another, nettled just that it did; it was mildly terrifying to feel as though she didn't know her own self. _What,_ (at this she snorted) had she expected him to declare his actions governed by love not duty? Outrageous! Furthermore, she certainly didn't wish for such a thing, not in the slightest!

The meal's conclusion of light conversation was a refreshing tribute to those they shared whilst crossing Martinique _before_ all had gone the way of Sodom and Gomorrah. Nostalgia brought comfort to chaos. At last Christine remembered to ask after their stuff, what had been spared and so on, too numbed to have taken stock then, and was glad to discover her rucksack amongst the few salvaged effects. She could scarcely fathom so much had transpired in the span of half a day: _a flash flood, a kiss, a cataclysm._ They were each of them veiled in the mist of bygone memories, seeming a lifetime ago yet carrying a fresh sting.

To this end she was grateful for his companionship because it kept the shock of tragedy at bay. The reprieve, however transitory, was immeasurably valuable. Eventually she must pay the piper but _that_ would come later. Erik made it easy to lose herself, he always had, whether by arguing or simply talking and sometimes through neither; her mind seldom wandered when with him. He was more engaging than he'd ever been, and while Christine suspected this was in-part indulgence on her behalf there was a warmth in his manner which had heretofore been absent. Maybe the reduced threat, no longer having to look over his shoulder every step, had relaxed him somewhat, or _maybe_ his heart had softened _—_ She ended speculation there, whatever it was didn't matter but she was nonetheless appreciative.

"Were the books already here?" she inquired, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

"No."

"Where did you get them? Is there a library on board you've neglected to mention?" His lips moved, not enough to be classified as a smile. Still, she took what she was offered and from Erik it was equivalent to the grin of a Cheshire cat; her heart thumped a bit faster at the thought.

"Andries told me of an assortment of novels contained in the ship's stores, I picked titles I thought might appeal to you."

Christine was both moved and nonplussed, it showed in her inelegantly stuttered thanks and she quickly shut her mouth to avoid looking more idiotic.

"Nearly all are from his personal collection, he developed a penchant for reading whilst serving in the war. However, I believe your particular choice belonged to his wife."

"Belonged?" Christine reiterated, breaking her silence; she caught his use of the past-tense and frowned. "Did she not accompany him to the Caribbean?"

"She is dead."

Her hand flew to her mouth too late to intercept the gasp that escaped. "How awful!"

"Yes." Erik's shoulders stiffened, his posture one of discomfort. "I never met her, she died before Andries and I crossed paths." There was more to the sad story of Captain Lombaard's late wife and it plainly weighed on him. Last week she probably would have inferred his guilt from this reaction, back in the early days of their acquaintance she'd put no heinous act beyond him; she knew better now. He was far from blameless, an admitted torturer and assassin but not inherently evil. Under the black tarnish of a murderer lay a soul of light, killing brought him no joy; Christine couldn't picture him murdering an innocent woman whatever the situation. Perhaps there had been an accident for which he felt culpable, perhaps Mrs Lombaard was a wartime casualty whose demise he caused indirectly.

Out of many possibilities only two things were certain:

One, her conjecture aside the matter was none of her business; and two, she'd get _nil_ out of Erik regardless.

With little else to do following such an uncomfortable topic Christine re-immersed herself in the novel, she had finally dispensed with the futile endeavor of uncovering his past. It was a lost cause, a more stubborn, secretive person she'd never met, he could rival a bank vault. No good came from lingering on the fact. Fiction was plenty compelling, besides! Moreover, Gaskell's characters were every bit as rich and stimulating and best of all didn't answer back.

Despite her enthusiasm focusing with him there proved onerous. His agitation hadn't abated, it was unclear if he dwelt on the death of the captain's wife or was plagued by another concern but _something_ had him flipping wildly through the pages of his own book, scribbling in the margins and chewing on the end of his fountain pen. It made her nervous in turn. She perceived every little noise, every inconsequential movement, her senses were heightened, honed by his fitfulness. Doubtless this was how a herd of zebras felt grazing in the midst of lions.

"Does something distress you?" Christine prompted when his fidgeting reached a head and she could take no more.

"No. Why?"

Well, here it went... She steeled herself for the outburst.

"Are you unhappy then? Only you seem cross, as if you'd rather be anywhere but here." Her tone took on an unintentional wounded sharpness, childlike and peevish; she hated it. Why did he incense her so, making her sound immature and irrational when she was neither? Christine had never struggled to keep a steady head but Erik filled her with a recklessness that overruled all logic, she resented him for this. Evermore alarming was its increasing frequency. She anguished over having spoken at all, battling the instinct to bury her face in the bedding till her words turned to powder.

"Unhappy? I am just tired." came his frank rejoinder.

His excuse was as good as any invoked summarily. In their short time as a dyad he had gotten less sleep than she, sometimes skipping it altogether, and over the past twenty-four hours had been battered, thrashed, scorched, deafened, and half-drowned without the benefit of a nap or, indeed, much rest; Christine was aware of this. True, he had taken a nasty beating—his head throbbed where the blade of the oar had grazed him, his ribs ached as if splintered, there was a muffled ringing in his ears, and every part of his body was wholly exhausted—but none of these encumbrances were responsible for his unrest.

Erik couldn't well tell her the truth, could he, that her presence deeply unsettled him? Not through any fault of hers but because he was of depraved and unsound mind, his musings sinfully corrupted, for he could not stop reflecting on that kiss. Every time her lovely mouth moved, whether in speech or mouthing a line that had caught her fancy, he envisioned kissing it without interruption, every time she shifted he imagined her writhing beneath him in that very bed.

It was maddening that he should be affected by something this trivial. Kisses he had experienced and certainly better ones, of that there was no doubt, but none so erotic nor half a shade as memorable. He tried unsuccessfully to contemplate why only to return to those wickedly delicious images of her naked and willing in his arms. In fantasy she lay before him as clear as she was now and unclothed as she had been the night she bathed in the river, her skin flushed under the caress of his lips. Ever-meticulous, Erik set them to each inch of that beauteous ivory canvas, and she would pant, moan, and beg for that which innocence barred her from naming, twining slender yet strong legs about his waist in pleading and he would readily accede, sob with joy to be one with her.

Lord, he'd give her _anything_ if she but asked! Didn't she see? Know that in him she had a witting slave? To recognize it was galling, to admit he was not immune to such emotions rankled. The concept was ridiculous and antagonistic in of itself, disgust bubbled like oil on the surface but his outrage was superficial, he would gladly prostrate himself before her, stoop and kiss her pretty feet, Christine need only make the request! Swiftly his thoughts turned to the _other_ places he longed to kiss, to _taste_ , and he began to grind his teeth methodically. His desire was speedily reaching a crescendo that manifested in small, anxious quirks; his blood churned hot and fast in his veins. Erik wanted her so mightily it was painful.

The manner in which he repeatedly tousled his hair (a nervous tick of his) advertised that he again concealed something. In her state of mortification Christine didn't push. She couldn't definitively say what was so upsetting, maybe it was how pitiful she had sounded or the way his gaze fastened onto her with a predatory raptness, harsh, consuming and judgmental. Good Lord, she was a mess of nerves and contradictions! With a whooshing exhale she clutched her book a bit closer and lost herself in the chilly, blackened streets of Milton.

Each of them continued in their respective pursuits, her reading and him doing God-knows-what, until the words ran together and her eyelids began to droop.

"Oh," she yawned loudly behind her hand, "I'm dreadfully sorry but I can barely keep awake all of the sudden."

"Don't apologize. Rest as long as you'd like, you've earned that much."

"Y-You'll stay, won't you?" Christine abruptly blurted. Was she destined to play the role of the babbling buffoon at each opportunity? He was staring once more, through not at her, brooding over her question. For all his rumination, she might have asked him the meaning of life itself or something equally profound. Typical Erik, quick to respond in every instance _except_ when she hung on his word; he finally replied as the breath she'd been holding ran out.

"If that is your wish." The answer was succinct yet rang oddly charged, volumes of things unspoken flickered in his eyes. Whatever their meaning she was too tired to hypothesize nor did she dare try, they evaporated as readily as they appeared and she wondered if she'd really seen them or if they were a mirage. It was irrelevant, she concluded, all conscious musings bleeding into drowsiness; with a muttered approximation of 'thank you' Christine turned toward the opposite wall and welcomed sleep.

 **o o o**

A nightmare, an incontestable nightmare too horrendous for recollection, its terror too tangible for dreams, so traumatic her mind forced it into the abyss of non-memory. No imagination could conjure such ghastliness, not even that which belonged to the most debased or deranged of men.

But it _felt_ real, _had_ to be real. Though Christine retained only sparse details everything she did remember—flashes of scenery, violent sounds, chilling screeches, the roaring avalanche of ash and fire—seemed an irrefutable reality, as if she was there. Yet she hadn't been. She'd witnessed the horrid spectacle, yes, but from the relative safety of the ship. There was no plausible way she could have been in Saint-Pierre, if that were the case she would be no more than a pile of ash and bone.

 _Still_ , it was so vivid...

She was reliving the catastrophe from a hill overlooking the town, watching the event replay with the same despondent disbelief as that morning. Her position, one removed from the immediate searing torrent, afforded her an unadulterated, macabre view. Christine saw the cloud before everyone below did: enormous, heartless, suffocating, a massive grey wall of encroaching death. Rationale with its impartial logic decried it fruitless but the humanity within, flawed and idealistic, drove her to call out in warning.

 _NO! LOOK BACK! LOOK BACK! RUN! BEHIND YOU! RUN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, RUN!  
_

All efforts were in vain, the great flaming cloud moved with a matchless rapidity. Not even Pheidippides could have outrun it. And, nimble Hermes shod with winged sandal would have likewise been outstripped. At once it was upon them, she could do naught but observe. She saw not their faces but heard their screams - oh, the noises they made, _the horrible noises!_ Screams, howls, shrieks, pleas, and cries rising at abominable volume until the deluge was comprised not of ash but forlorn, inhuman wailing. Then, to her infinite fright did they swell into song, the _Dies irae_ their chosen hymn.

 _Dies iræ, dies illa_  
 _Solvet sæclum in favilla,_  
 _Teste David cum Sibylla._

 _Day of wrath and doom impending,_  
 _David's word with Sibyl's blending,_  
 _Heaven and earth in ashes ending!_

The heat was tremendous. Even at a distance she was apt to broil long before the barrage reached her. But what did it matter? Death had cast its vicious despair about the place, there was no hope left to be had; she fell to her knees in supplication. Saint-Pierre's fate had been sealed, divine judgment was a ruthless executioner, impartial and precise. _All_ would burn.

 _Quantus tremor est futurus,_  
 _Quando Judex est venturus,_  
 _Cuncta stricte discussurus!_

 _Oh, what fear man's bosom rendeth,_  
 _When from heaven the Judge descendeth,_  
 _On whose sentence all dependeth._

In that final stretch when faith turns to ash and the sufferer prays for swift deliverance Christine's deepest fear took shape. Emerging from the billowing haze it sought her out walking towards her on two legs. And her stomach crumbled, dashed into the dirt like all the buildings along the former Rue Victor Hugo. Hell, apparently, was as real in dreams as it was in life. She censured herself for not turning away, disavowed the sadistic piece of her that looked on in spite of knowing the imminent result. No branch of salvation was to be extended, no quarter shown, they were all shared in their bleak sentence. _All_. Man, woman, child, and animal alike, every one of them consigned to death.

Realizing the end was nigh they joined in the unearthly choir of the despondent, all. That is, all but _one_.

His pace was unhurried, his boyish smile gleaming, his golden hair wind-whipped and singed, there wasn't a jot of concern on his handsome face. A spasm exploded within her chest, compressing her organs with unimaginable pressure, were they made of harder stuff than tissue and blood they would have produced a hundred fine diamonds. Raoul gave a genial wave and her pulse flared against the leaden wad that had lodged itself in her throat, the echo forming a rhythm of ominous percussion.

Breathing was arduous, up impossible to distinguish from down, terror her sole reality. The nefarious surge was bearing down licking at his heels but Raoul didn't spin round to face his fast-approaching obliteration, he just continued grinning unfazed without a care in the world.

 _Tuba mirum spargens sonum,_  
 _Per sepulchra regionum,_  
 _Coget omnes ante thronum._

 _Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth;_  
 _Through earth's sepulchres it ringeth;_  
 _All before the throne it bringeth._

 _NOOOOOOOO!_ Her screech tore through her vocal cords, a plow cutting damp earth. She screamed his name as he was swallowed whole.

Dead, forever gone, no body left behind and no closure to be given, her oldest friend...

 _Poor, dear Raoul._

 _Sweet, brave Raoul._

He'd have done anything for her, followed her anywhere—he had come because of her, followed her here—now he was dead.

No, it was _far_ worse than that. Raoul had died alone in a foreign land on the whims of another, on _her_ whims. He never wanted to go to Martinique but Christine had beseeched, pouted, and manipulated until he agreed. His kindness had been selfishly repaid, she abandoned him to save herself and left him to perish friendless.

This was completely _her_ fault.

It was she who deserved mortality.

Christine closed her eyes and softly began to sing her own Requiem alongside the others. She embraced the fiery river of smoke with arms outstretched, her last sensation being scalded, roasted alive by La Montagne's rancid, sulfurous breath.

 _Mors stupebit et natura,_  
 _Cum resurget creatura,_  
 _Judicanti responsura._

 _Death is struck, and nature quaking,_  
 _All creation is awaking,_  
 _To its Judge an answer making._

Her swan song never faltered, though her skin did melt and her bones did blacken she drifted to a deep place of peace. There was a light beckoning her, Christine drifted towards it unhurriedly. Now it was pulling her, drawing her in faster and faster...

...and she started awake, gasping and disorientated, clammy with sweat.

" _Raoul, o_ _h, Raoul!_ " she mewled weakly unsure of her current whereabouts or, indeed, _anything_ outside of her ghastly vision; Christine shuddered.

Where was she? Was she safe, was _this_ real? The answer to these questions hovered over her prone form; she thought him an angel until she saw his scowl. Every trace of residual worry drained from his face the moment she beheld him. A second mask settled over his already-obscured features, this one woven of savage frigidness

"Forgive my interruption," The words were pointedly issued, piercing and cold like shards of ice.

" _In-Interruption?_ " Christine stammered in a frenzied attempt to make sense of everything. Could one 'interrupt' a nightmare? Why was he so wroth, who was there to wake with her screams? He hadn't been angry when she fell asleep, she didn't understand.

"Clearly you were in the midst of a rather ... _turbulent_ dream."

"Oh, that was _clear_ , was it?"

" _Perfectly._ " he ground out.

"Are the nightmares of others so offensive, then?" she retorted, rising to match his indignation.

Erik's teeth gnashed before his lips assembled themselves into a cruel, menacing leer. "A 'nightmare', you say? Perhaps you should be more discerning in your choice of paramour, one whom inspires moans of ecstasy not revulsion." Coming from a hideous monster his was a brazen charge but all rationality had drowned in the whirlwind of temper and he couldn't stop himself.

The bright fury shining in her irises nearly emboldened him enough to add that _he_ could serve her in such a capacity, that he was _not_ wanting for knowledge like her greenhorn boy. _He_ could make her tremble and scream, it would be his consummate pleasure. A sweeter challenge never existed. There would be naught so delectable as her voice raised in rapture by his doing _—_ by hand or tongue or _other_ _—_ and he coveted those love-drunk refrains. God, they would be music in their own right, she possessed such a beautiful voice, his sweet, little songbird.

"My ... _P-PARAMOUR_ _?!_ How dare you? You _vile_ , _impertinent_ cad! You swine! You've no idea of what I dreamt, t-that you'd even mention _it's_ ... it's the height of v-vulgarity!"

" _No?_ " he rasped, "You were quite enthusiastic when you were screaming _his_ name, little princess." There was a new emotion seizing him now, one he had never nor believed he'd ever experience. That jade-eyed beast, jealousy, possessed him, he could feel its power in his every cell, in his heart that beat a lusty tattoo of _mine, mine, mine_ , in his fingers simultaneously itching to stroke and throttle her, in his every tensely coiled muscle, his body fairly hummed with it. The urge to take her, to rain punishing kisses upon her delectable body, to administer sinful tortures until she forgot everything outside of him, outside of their entwined bodies, was more tenacious than ever. If he stayed he _would_ brand her his in a snarl of sheets, sweat and seed. He would ruin her. Unlike the two other times he'd held her there would be no restraint, Erik would ravish her and truly become the most despicable of villains.

So he did the only thing he could, that thing at which he had become quite skilled since meeting her, running like a craven. He hated this cowardly part of himself, hated that he couldn't put his feelings into words and seemed resolved to act like a surly child. But whatever he was feeling couldn't possibly be authentic. No, this was just the result of fatigue, he felt nothing, especially for his wide-eyed, cherubic charge, he simply needed time and sleep to clear his head.

"I'll leave you to dream about your lover." Erik spat viciously. And with that he exited, disregarding the volley of profanities she hurled at him.

* * *

 ** _Uh-oh_. This seems like it will end well. Get ready for an angsty road ahead, dear readers. :)  
**

 **A/N: I like making literary, musical, and historical references if you couldn't tell by now, lol. I think it's awesome finding verses, plots, and lines applicable to the story and feel it helps add some depth to my characters and what is going on within their heads. Anyway, I'll elaborate below for those unfamiliar.**

 **Sailors were a very superstitious bunch. While a lot of rituals were ship-specific, such as touching a lucky totem aboard the ship before a voyage, some were more generalized and upheld by a majority of mariners, things like certain birds bringing good luck, 'unlucky' days of the week, or a person being the embodiment of bad luck; the so-called, 'Jonah', sometimes they were thrown overboard to drown as a solution to whatever problems they 'caused'! One of these common beliefs was that having women aboard was a big no-no, mainly on merchant vessels not subject to naval codes. It's been theorized that this notion (and many other superstitions) originated with the captains of said ships as a way of controlling and appeasing the crew to avoid mutinies. Having women on your ship, which would spend weeks and months at sea, was a recipe for disaster and distraction. Unlike naval ships, which could and did punish men for disobedience, merchant captains didn't have the authority of their military counterparts. Naturally the idea was probably helped along by tales of sirens and mermaids. Interestingly, though women were bad luck a woman's bare breasts were said to calm the sea during a storm. Ever wonder why some old sailing ships feature a figurehead of a topless woman? That's why. The usage of female figureheads became more prevalent in the late 18th century.**

 ***Walpole and Lewis of course refer to Horace Walpole, an 18th century Earl and the pioneer of the first 'Gothic' novel, _The Castle of Otranto_ , and 18th century novelist, Matthew Gregory Lewis, author of the famous Gothic novel, _The Monk_.**

 ***In _The Invisible Man_ by H. G. Wells the protagonist, Griffin, is a scientist who devotes his life to the study of optics, specifically refraction, as a way to make a person invisible. Griffin succeeds in turning himself invisible but cannot reverse the process.**

 ***Another H. G. Wells reference! This time to his work, _The Sleeper Awakes_ ( _When the Sleeper Wakes_ ), in which a man, Graham, goes into a coma in the late 1800s and wakes up in the year 2100 to find that he is the super rich, super important 'Master of the Earth'. So, it was a little tricky because while it was published in the British newspaper, _The Graphic_ , and serialized in 1899 Wells was very unhappy about the quality of the story and ended up editing/republishing it as a novel in 1910. Obviously Christine would have read the original since the novel wouldn't be republished for another 8 years. Fortunately the main details of the two versions are largely the same so it worked out. I really liked the idea of her being a Wells fan because his works felt designed to appeal more to men of the time than women and we all know Christine is no dainty, little lady. ;)**

 ***Sodom and Gomorrah are the most well-known of the four wayward biblical cities destroyed by divine judgment in Genesis. The relevant part is that they were laid to waste by fire and brimstone much like Saint-Pierre.**

 ***Elizabeth Gaskell's, _North and South_ happens to be a favorite of mine, I had to include it! I also thought brooding and blunt Mr Thornton and proud but sheltered Margaret Hale made a lovely mirror to our characters. Like Christine, Margaret is out of her element when she arrives in Milton and must grow in maturity. Initially Margaret dislikes her new circumstances and clashes with the outspoken Mr Thornton, as the novel goes on the tension between them builds. There's denial of feelings, jealousy, rejection, careless mistakes galore. Sound familiar?**

 ***Pheidippides was the courier who, according to legend, ran 25 miles non-stop from Marathon to Athens to deliver news of the Persian defeat and died thereafter; he's the inspiration behind the modern-day marathon race. Hermes was the messenger of the gods and needed special shoes to get around quickly and travel between worlds.**

 ***The _Dies Irae_ (Day of Wrath) is a Medieval Latin hymn about the Last Judgment, it's most commonly seen used as a sequence in the Requiem (Funeral Mass) in the Catholic Church. You might see that and go, "Wait, why would Christine know it if she was raised Anglican?" Well, the Anglican Church actually uses an English version of the _Dies irae_ and since she studied Latin, it follows that she'd be familiar with both the original and its translation. Turns out there were several major translations throughout 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries but the version used translated by the Rev. William Josiah Irons in 1848 was considered to be the most accurate and the best matched to the original Latin.**


	21. The Truth in Books

**A/N: Just keep in mind that all of this stuff is going down within the span of half a day. Things are turbulent with a capital T. Erik and Christine have been through the wringer, they're exhausted, on-edge, in shock, emotionally drained and trying to make sense of it all so expect a lot of brooding on both sides with a delightful hint of irrationality - _actually, probably more than a 'hint'._ If the thoughts within this and the last chapter seem redundant, frazzled, or contradictory it's been done on purpose.  
**

 **Thank you to Child of Dreams, Not A Ghost3, lovecelticopera, and cotesgoat for the lovely reviews! And way to call me out, Not A Ghost3. Just kidding, I deserve it. I'm glad everyone is still enjoying the story, even if I am torturing you. ;)**

 **Ah, yes, and for those wondering when the tension and angst will implode the answer is... next chapter! It's pretty much done but requires the usual amount of polishing. I think it turned out nicely, there's fluff, angst, backstory (wherein we see Erik's good side from another POV), and some making up. However, I'll be a dreadful tease and tell you that this aforementioned resolution falls flat in comparison to another I've written (you'll see it 3-4 chapters down the road).**

 **Oh, and before I forget, on the subject of sex (cotesgoat)... a slow burn is just that, dear readers, _slow._ It will be a while yet before the sexy times but hopefully by then it will have been worth the wait. I'm not heartless, though, there will be steaminess. You think our characters can remain totally pure for that long?  
**

 **At least this chapter will bring them one step closer, _or will it?_ ;)**

* * *

 **8 May [12 Hours Post-Eruption]**

Erik fled at a frenzied clip until he reached the corridor containing his cabin, slowing only when positive he hadn't been followed. He stopped a short distance away from his door, not yet ready to hole up like a hermit in the bowels of the steamer and started to pace. Pacing had helped him collect himself since he was a boy - sometimes the servants could be overheard saying that the young master was less a child and more a grandfather with the way he paced and brooded - today the familiar ritual did nothing to calm him. In an opposite turn he grew _more_ enraged and letting go a feral growl punched the metal hull. The impact, keen and intense, provided sweet release; the _sole_ release he'd achieve in the foreseeable future.

 _Again. Again._ And, _again_ his fist collided with the unyielding surface bringing him no wave of satisfaction quite so heady as the first. Then, the pain set in; the agonized, throbbing received from him no more reaction than a grimace, curse, and curl of lip.

Physical pain was an old acquaintance, their relationship kindled within the exotic reaches of Persia. Erik gave the afflicted hand a detached appraisal: the knuckles were torn and bled freely, a bruise blossomed jauntily over two of them both of which were already thick with swelling. He put each finger through an excruciating course of movement and found nothing markedly amiss. There were no obvious fractures but days of tenderness were to be expected. This knowledge was of little significance to him, he'd been dealt much worse than smarting digits in the past. Suffering he could endure, what he could _not_ presently abide was company and when he heard the approach of the latter he was tempted to loose a second assault upon the steel even at the risk of shattering every bone in his hand.

"What's all this noise? Did you find a loose rivet? I know you English don't consider we Boers civilized but at least we use a hammer." The fact that it was Andries didn't make the presence any more agreeable but possibly saved his unwelcome guest from a broken jaw or _worse_.

"It is nothing to trouble yourself over." Erik said in warning.

"Like hell it isn't, it's _my_ ship you're mistreating!"

"There's no damage done, Andries," he sneered, "stop carrying on like a bloody woman."

"It's the principle of—"

" _Fuck your principles._ "

"What in God's name has you in such a way, Erik?"

" _That_ , is not your concern." Every syllable was a plain threat, a quiver of a rattlesnake's tail.

"Has the girl said something? Have you two argued?" At this Erik snapped round his eyes alight with a conflagration to rival that of Peleé while the captain's shone with grim recognition bordering on sympathy. Damn it all! Why was pity determined to act as his constant companion?

"I know _that_ look..." Andries murmured.

" _Then_ you will know to let me alone!" Erik spat viciously, slamming the door behind him.

He wanted greatly to destroy something, to reduce the space to uninhabitable rubble. His thoughts were measured out in eviscerated books, smashed glass, hemorrhaging pillows and pulverized wood. It was contemptible enough that he was jealous but to have another of his sex notice and comment upon his vulnerability was humiliating.

Contrary to what might be believed of a man classified by most as aloof and unfeeling, he was intensely emotional. That was precisely why he learnt the necessity of restraint at an early age. Dangerous things, feelings, as unpredictable as wild beasts. Few forces could make or break a man quicker than a fit of passion, _this_ he knew all too well. Temper was the one emotional vice he wrestled to control, all other ludicrous or soppy sentiments - he was proud to say - were quashed then culled. And, he had been successful in doing this— _so very bloody successful_ —then came her.

It was an easy system to maintain: dalliances over devotion. For him the concept of jealousy never existed, Erik was indifferent when those he bedded sauntered into the arms of some other fellow. He didn't begrudge them this, perchance a different chap could provide for what he lacked in sentimentality. _But_ _then came her_...

She was as of yet untried, it was patently apparent. No, she was as pure and innocent as the Virgin Mother herself. The boy hadn't touched her nor made any intentions known, therefore Erik's envy wasn't borne of a legitimate cause. However, envy was at its core irrational, an incredibly human flaw, and it elicited a black rage that Christine should even dream of another. _Better that she be entirely sexless than yearn for someone else,_ this aberrant part of him growled. It was infuriating that he cared and cared so much. And at the crux of it all _he_ was completely to blame.

That _boy_ , that fucking boy!

 _...Raoul._

What a soft, pretty name, a woman's name! Given what he recollected of her golden-haired dupe it suited. He cringed to think of the buffoon, the desire put further abuse to his poor fist suddenly overwhelming. From the first the boy had irritated him, ever in the way, continually ruining his plans. Well, precious little had changed! True, the fop wasn't here - if he were the ship's hull would have caught a reprieve - but he was still in her heart and mind occupying the place Erik himself sought.

 _Always_ he'd be relegated to second-best in her affections and Erik Grey despised defeat, especially by one whom he regarded as inferior. It wasn't that he wanted her for himself (he didn't), it was more so his competitive spirit. That _boy_ was no more substantial than a painted China doll. What had he done for her other than bask in her radiance, trailing after her like a trained monkey? Tasked with her welfare the imbecile had delivered her right into the lap of the curs hunting her. _Some_ guardian the boy made drunkenly allowing her to traipse off into the night, he couldn't be a more dismal failure than if he had chained her naked to a rock in the town square. While _he_ had not only protected her, nearly laying down his own life in the process, but also looked after her every need and saved her how many additional times? _He_ , the one with whom she'd been acquainted for less than two weeks, had done more for her than dear Raoul had in the span of fourteen _years_. But, alas, the position of Christine's regard was one of tenure _not_ proficiency. The lackey had been by her side from the beginning and thus had guaranteed status regardless of his gross ineptitude.

What could Erik, a man she had just met and— _honestly_ —just begun to tolerate (though after his outburst that point was debatable), ever be to a boy she'd known since childhood? How he longed to be _that_ boy, to have known Christine as she grew from headstrong girl to stalwart woman! His wish wasn't rooted in reasons romantic (he was eleven years her senior, after all) but in the reluctant fondness he'd developed for her over the last fortnight.

In his mind's eye he could see her: scaled-down and in a freshly starched dress, the same defiant jut to her chin that was both aggravating and endearing. He could picture her ducking away and running off onto the grounds whilst a frazzled governess yelled after her; she'd tear at those dainty plaits, which had likely taken the aforementioned woman an inordinate amount of time to complete, with untamed little fingers. Determination flaming in those large, dark eyes she'd clamber up a tree scuffing her polished shoes, putting runs in her stockings, ripping her mud-flecked skirts, and throw her head back and laugh letting her riotous curls catch the breeze. When the sun grew low the fae-child would emerge from her wilderness kingdom not sulking but walking bold, her father would be waiting with arms crossed and stern look, she'd run to him beaming, light dancing in her irises, chubby face smudged with dirt, twigs in her hair. She would look an absolute fright, like some formerly civilized thing reclaimed by nature, and his ire would melt away an indulgent grin replacing it. His grievance forgotten he'd welcome her jovially back into the fold with wide embrace. Within her hand she'd clutch some stone or leaf and eagerly regale him with its origin, citing Whitman, Wordsworth, Shelley, or Keats to his heart's delight and he'd say, _'That's my Christine!'_ and be proud to have such a daughter.

Yes, Christine would have been every bit as strong-willed and outspoken in girlhood, a bane to every governess who tried to subdue her fractious nature. The image brought a smile to his lips, those exact traits he once detested—in _Christopher_ then _Christine_ —were growing on him. That boy, that _idiot_ , was too dull and cultivated to appreciate them, to understand the uninhibited, passionate creature that lived inside her. She was squandered on him like shillings on a drunk yet Raoul would eternally hold his unmerited spot as first. Well, not the first in _everything_... Here, Erik's grin darkened as he relived their kiss, _t_ _hat_ much would be his and his alone along with so much more _if_ he had his way.

Disturbed, he gave his head a robust shake. He should cease immediately, cease and dispense with such thoughts - _nay, flights of fancy._ They were the embodiment of trouble, good for only disgrace and would ensure his downfall were he incautious. He should be ashamed to have had them at all! If not for whatever witchcraft had aroused his emotions, this newly-hatched parasite with no name draining him from within, there would be no dreams, fantasies, or yearning and he _wouldn't_ be in uncharted waters but instead fortified in heart and head as he had been prior to the wretch entering his life.

Christ, he loathed these arcane feelings, loathed the visions they provoked, loathed the absurdity with which they forced him to act! It was the most despicable torture and worse still was exacerbated with each day, coiling tighter about him like a great constricting serpent. Fighting, it seemed, was useless. However Erik was obstinate, even confronted with futility he wouldn't fold until the end was staring him dead in the eye. Only _then_ would he suffer to admit what he was beginning to fear, that supposed impossibility, that _other_ thing madder than jealousy and deeper than infatuation.

 **o o o**

For Christine the solitude was no more conducive to relaxation. In the aftermath of Erik's shocking flight she vacillated from stupefaction to confusion to enmity, all in rapid-fire succession. A barrage of questions came every bit as speedily: Why would he ever assume Raoul was her lover? What had possessed him to say such horrid, crude things? Why had he reacted thusly? Was he— _could he be_ , jealous? She dismissed the final one for the tosh it was. Jealousy necessitated a deep want and while there might be an inkling of physical attraction he most assuredly harbored no feelings for her apart from superficial desire. Ridiculous is what it was, he hardly tolerated her!

 _But_ , a voice in her head argued, _what about the kiss?_

Ah, yes, the kiss. Surely that had to have meant _something_. After all he wasn't keen on physical contact—it was one of the first things she'd learnt about him, the lesson _not_ an easy one—so his actions must have had motive. True, it could be explained away as a manifestation of his desire, yet the way he'd looked at her as he leaned in... maybe she was still reeling from her ordeal, but Christine could have sworn she glimpsed some deeper emotion. Or, _more likely_ , it was imagined. They had almost died, was there any greater catalyst for daring behavior than cheating Death? This phenomenon could be observed in soldiers coming home from war: overjoyed, and reckless because of this, they'd brazenly kiss strangers lining the streets. The explanation was straightforward: relieved and drunk off invulnerability Erik had kissed her, mystery solved, there wasn't anything more to it. She was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment in the revelation, and, shaking it off she returned to the puzzle at hand.

So, _what_ then had prompted his outburst?

Each possibility was as obscure as its predecessor, perhaps something else had vexed him and he was snappish; perhaps he had tired of her emotional upset; perhaps fatigue had rendered him irritable - all were equally plausible. After a while the guesses stopped and only indignation remained, the kind that induced maddening, teeth-grinding frustration. From this muddle resentment sprang, resentment at his inscrutability, at her circumstances, at the tension between them, at being caged in this floating hell of steam and steel, unable to scream.

 _Some_ amount of time bled by. There was no clock to determine how much or the lateness of the hour and for the entirety she fumed and fumed and fumed some more. She punched pillows, kicked the mattress, held her breath, yanked at her hair, wrung the quilt until her hands burned, violently rifled through the pages of her book, and at the end of it all bemoaned her loneliness. Eventually she noticed that he'd left his beloved Hugo on the arm of his chair and directed her fury towards it for a split second; she should read whatever annotations he'd scribbled in the margins, read them and rip the book to shreds. _That_ would show him! Although this proved empty bluster, she could never needlessly destroy a book, not even one belonging to Mephistopheles. Then, later, she seriously contemplated shying it at his head when he popped in to deposit a plate of food by the door but instead pointedly chose to ignore him.

At first her high dudgeon was too sustaining to yield to hunger's pull. She resolved not to take a single bite - in her frayed mind eating was equivalent to capitulating - and give him the satisfaction of her dependency. It didn't matter that he had long-since left and couldn't see if she touched the food. He would know somehow, he _always_ did, and Erik would get no such satisfaction from her! Christine glared murderously at the dinner in question and considered throwing it at the hull with every ounce of strength she had. There was abundant appeal in this daydream, in hearing the fatal crash of the plate and watching it splinter, in seeing the ruined fare slide down the metal, adding color to the bland grey steel. The image ignited some savage thing within her and she saw the world around her in degrees of devastation: here was an overturned table, there was a pillow bleeding feathers, in the corner was a cracked looking glass, the chair beside the bed—the one _he_ had claimed—sported a mortal gash. Half-mad with ferocious anger she spotted the knife he had gifted her atop a dresser and withdrew it from the sheath. She drew the weapon back and forth through the air to get a feel for it, temporarily mesmerized by the lantern's flame glinting off the blade.

Concentrating upon her hapless victim she lunged towards the chair and stumbled barely grasping onto the bedpost in time to steady herself. Christine's head was whirling, a wave of dizziness nearly drowning her, she felt frail, on the verge of collapse. The knife clattered as it met with the floor, it was enough to bring her back into her right mind. Logic identified hunger as the culprit. Apparently temper was not so nourishing as previously believed and, like a wild creature recently domesticated she took a few cautious bites before wolfing down the remainder.

Countless additional minutes trickled on and she tried not to let the suffocating disarray close in around her. Christine never cared for vagueness, she liked knowing the hour—whether by timepiece or celestial movement—not this stretching, timeless oblivion. This place made her feel trapped and lonesome, it reminded her of that stifling cave. Her one available solace was Gaskell's sooty Northern manufacturing town.

 _In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for different reasons. In Mr Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging to her, the individual. As far as they defied his rock-like power of character, his passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off from him with contempt, until she felt the weariness of the exertion of making useless protests; and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate way, to make known his love. For, although at first it had struck her, that his offer was forced and goaded out of him by sharp compassion for the exposure she had made of herself,—which he, like others, might misunderstand—yet, even before he left the room,—and certainly not five minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would love her. And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some great power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept away, and hid from his idea. But it was of no use. To parody a line out of Fairfax's Tasso—_

 _'His strong idea wandered through her thought.'_

On the cusp of slumber Christine's thoughts did wander, to him, to the home she left behind, to those days spent traversing the island of Martinique, to how much she had changed in the space of a week and a half, and back to him. She thought of herself in Margaret's place, mused over what she'd have done if two gentlemen in her acquaintance had gotten it into their heads to make her an offer. The scenario didn't naturally lend itself to her imagination but, intrigued, she forced it. Would Raoul defiantly promise to continue loving her in spite of her offended rejection? Would Erik play on her sympathies whilst apologizing for his impertinence in the hope she might renege and accept him?

No, she had that wrong. Raoul was Lennox; Erik was Thornton. Christine thumbed backwards through the book until she found the page she sought, and, with the confidence of a physician making a diagnosis, read to herself:

 _Now, in Mr Thornton's face the straight brows fell low over the clear, deep-set earnest eyes, which, without being unpleasantly sharp, seemed intent enough to penetrate into the very heart and core of what he was looking at. The lines in the face were few but firm, as if they were carved in marble, and lay principally about the lips, which were slightly compressed over a set of teeth so faultless and beautiful as to give the effect of sudden sunlight when the rare bright smile, coming in an instant and shining out of the eyes, changed the whole look from the severe and resolved expression of a man ready to do and dare everything, to the keen honest enjoyment of the moment, which is seldom shown so fearlessly and instantaneously except by children._

Yes, he was assuredly Thornton. One day she'd tell him as much. Smiling at the uncanny likeness between the two, one fictional, the other very much a real person, she shut her eyes, and whimsically pondered what it might be like to be loved by a man such as he; fierce, passionate, all-consuming, frightening in its intensity, terrifying yet thrilling in a primitive sense— A massive yawn interrupted the progression of her reverie and she recognized sleep was not far off.

Unaware if it was eight o'clock or the wee hours after midnight she was forced to trust her body's rhythms. Christine closed the book and marked her page, afterwards scrubbing her teeth with her finger - the best she could do at present - and changing into her de facto nightgown of Erik's shirt; she rinsed her mouth one last time and crawled back into bed.

They came to her as she floated in that realm before sleep, the images of death and destruction, the same comprising her nightmares. Strange, with the airy pleasantness occupying her just moments ago. She tried to put them from mind, to think of anything and everything else but the grisly apparitions became more insistent, filling her head the instant she closed her eyes. Inescapable and unrelenting, they loitered, lying in wait for her to doze off so that they might plague her. Christine sat up and chewed her cheek, she'd get no rest tonight, not _unless..._

There was one solution, one balm for her endless dreams of fiery suffering, and armed with a lantern and steadying inhale she went in search of _it_.

Two fumbling passes later she located the door she was after, the steel notched and paint lightly chipped. Without pausing in doubt Christine knocked, fully cognizant of the potential consequences should she be incorrect, but she couldn't afford to think on them, not now. Still nervous, she held her breath as she awaited the reply that would either send her scurrying through or away. It was to be the second; relieved, she practically leapt into the room.

"Christine?" Her name was issued with the soft-spoken uncertainty one might use to address a spectre, as if questioning her veracity.

She gave a sheepish sort of half-shrug, half-smile of confirmation. He was unmoved, _a_ _nnoyed_ , even, sitting at his little writing desk scowling like a disgruntled prince.

"What in God's name are you doing here?!" His eyes went wide as he beheld her, his mouth slightly agape, "And dressed _like_..." Erik leapt up immediately and before she could comprehend that he'd moved at all there was a swish of dark fabric and a man's dressing gown lay draped about her shoulders _\- a d_ _ressing gown_ , where had _that_ come from? He frowned, "Have you any idea what could have befallen you roaming the ship at midnight, knocking on doors? Idiot girl! Have you taken _complete_ leave of your senses?!"

His harsh reprimand bit unusually deep; it caught her off-guard, bringing unsolicited tears to her eyes. Despite her wobbling lip and cloudy vision, she withheld from crying. She'd made a grave mistake in coming here, there was no comfort to be had, just conflict. Why had she presumed he'd be welcoming, that he would have forgotten?

" _I..._ I'm sorry. _I shouldn't_ —I shouldn't have bothered you." She had no sooner taken a step than Erik called out:

"Where are you going?"

"B-Back to my quarters." She heard him sigh; his tone was resigned, devoid of vitriol.

"You needn't—" Another sigh. "I didn't mean to frighten you, but it seems I have quite a gift for it."

"I'm _not_ afraid. _Just_ , I'd forgotten you might still be angry with me. I'll take my leave now, forgive my imposing." That she managed to keep her voice steady was a source of great pride and some of her confidence came fluttering back.

" _NO!_ " he countered with more force than necessary, "No. _I should_ —there's something I _must..._ Earlier, I spoke out of turn,"

" _Please,_ " she interposed, "Don't. I didn't come for an apology." It wasn't the apology itself with which she found objection. No, she'd come here to _escape_ , to wipe the slate clean, not to rehash their feud over the exact thing she avoided. Acknowledgment of any sort would do just that.

"Then, why _have_ you come?"

Yes, why _had_ she? Suddenly she was terribly unsure, his presence was flustering her, he was standing nearer than he had been seconds prior. When had the air become so thin?

"I— _well_ , I c-cannot say... I-I should r-return." Christine backed towards the door.

" _Wait,_ " he said on a heavy exhale, "I'll escort you."

"T-Thank you." Was this what she intended? She no longer remembered her original purpose but nevertheless accepted his offer, repeatedly second-guessing doing so.

As she and Erik walked down the corridor they cultivated distance between them not words. She lagged behind, he forged ahead, and neither did anything to upset this fragile balance. The journey back was a quick one. It could not have taken more than a minute but space and silence lengthened even the most infinitesimal amount of time. And, although it seemed to protract until Christine could scream for lack of noise, there was not opportunity enough to think of what she might do or say next. When they reached her—or rather, _the captain's_ —cabin Erik held the door open and, panicked, she partly shouted the first thing that came to her.

"Come in, won't you? You _must!_ I cannot sleep with the nightmares, they're constant, you see. Being alone makes them worse, I can't be alone." Her frantic speech was reflected in her eyes, round with desperation, imploring as if she was bargaining for something dearly important.

"I shall sit with you, then, if you believe it will help."

The part of her which had on occasion arisen, the one eager to embrace him, surged to the fore. _Go to him, seek the safety of his arms_ , it goaded. She didn't heed it, though she continued to look up at him slavishly, communicating her gratitude without words. He gazed back equally restrained, his bearing rigid; at his sides his hands flexed. To the outside observer the thrumming tension between the two was palpable, but was to each of them confusing and uncomfortable. Like the most naïve of children neither quite conceived how to act on these novel impulses. Erik was the more experienced of the pair; he could comprehend - to his evolving horror - what it meant, whereas Christine was oblivious and dazzled. Consequently it was he who shattered the lull.

"We should go inside, unless you'd prefer to spend the night in the hall." A vibrant blush lit her face.

"Y-Yes, of course."

Once they were in the cabin Christine took the chance to study him; he sported fresh apparel and appeared to have since washed and shaved. Come to think, his attire wasn't just laundered but new, she was sure she'd never seen that shirt or those trousers; and the dressing gown still enshrouding her, that was definitely unfamiliar. Where had he gotten them? More importantly, were there any for her? The idea of exchanging her stained, sweat-soaked rags for clean clothes held considerable allure. She couldn't help but inquire.

"You've changed your clothing. Whose is this, the dressing gown?" An exquisitely fine garment of black and gold silk brocade with black velvet cuffs and collar, expensively tailored, it wasn't something he merely found; the elegant fabric was a divinely smooth caress against the bare skin of her legs.

"Mine."

"Y-Yours?" She gaped in shock, her ears burning with the cognizance that she was clad solely in garb belonging to him. "But, how?"

"Did you suppose I brought only my service uniform and a few shirts? Were that the case, what would you presume I'd wear in transit, tatters?" The questions were rhetorical and obvious now that he mentioned them. Christine wished she'd made that consideration for she _would_ be stuck in tatters henceforth. "I left my trunk with Andries and took what I needed onto the island."

"I see." Christine extracted herself from his robe and handed it back before climbing into bed; were she vigilant she would have observed how his eyes flared at the sight. "Well, thank you."

"Yes." His reply was gruff, there was a strain in his voice. Peculiar, but she didn't give it much thought.

"What will you do?" she asked abruptly. When she had pressed him to stay she'd failed to take his needs into account, he was more deprived of sleep than was she; remorse over her selfishness flooded her. That he saw her as a burden was no surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"How will you sleep?"

"The chair will serve me fine should I get tired."

"What will you do in the meantime? Would you like your book? You left it here _when..._ I didn't open it, don't fret." Erik simply stared at her, receiving the worn novel when it was extended to him. She flashed him a tiny smile settling herself into the mess of pillows and bedding. Several minutes elapsed with nary a movement or sound and figuring she was asleep, he opened the text that had been his constant companion for the past three years. Then, with a restless rustle, Christine flopped onto her back dramatically and turned to him.

"Can I ..." Her words were carefully selected and deliberately uttered, "May I hold your h-hand? Please, I need to know I'm not alone."

Slowly, gingerly, Erik raised his right hand and brought it to rest palm-up upon the edge of the mattress. There was an expectant sadness in the gesture, one echoing of anticipated last-minute rejection. He did not speak, did not point out the foolish nature of her request, he likely couldn't have spurred his tongue into action at any rate.

 _Stay_ , _please, promise you'll stay._

Christine's final entreaty resounded in the enclosed space, hardly a whisper but somehow a thunderous pounding in his ears. He would stay, this time he knew he must, there was nothing for it, no debate. In that moment of susceptibility and worry laid bare Erik could not refuse her, for all his coldness, for all the inconvenience she brought, she was just an artless young girl, a wandering child, lost and helpless; he would have crooned and recited nursery rhymes had that been her desire. His compassion wasn't new nor was it indicative of any change within him—he had felt much the same when she'd injured her hand those many nights ago—he'd always harbored a tenderness for broken, downtrodden things; there were no ulterior motivations, he would extend the same humanity to anyone else in her position. This blatant lie offered short-lived appeasement, at least. These so-called pretexts were becoming harder to justify.

He watched her as she drifted off cleaving to his hand like a lifeline amidst a tempest, a hint of a smile on her face. Indeed she looked carefree, so light and at ease, so _content_. A bubble of pride rose in his chest that he was responsible for her security and happiness. For a brief second he too felt unburdened, lighthearted; then rationality intervened, it wasn't he who had provided her consolation but instead _what_ he represented. Outside of her tyrannical guardian he was nothing to her. Queerly, this realization galled him. He frowned, uncertain what to make of these thoughts; and, discreet so as not to disturb Christine, re-opened his copy of, _L'Homme qui rit_ on his knee, slipping a fountain pen from his pocket. The task was a clumsy affair to manage one-handed and made all the worse by his injury - as, unwilling to explain the state of his mangled appendage, Erik had given her his unscathed right hand.

With a good deal of bungling he flipped to a page with blank margins and could have laughed.

Part Two, Book the Second, the one dedicated to the lovers, Gwynplaine and Dea, more specifically he'd turned to the fourth chapter, _'Les Amoreux Assortis'_. What were the odds? Erik was not a God-fearing man by any stretch but sometimes even the skeptic was obliged to open his mind, _sometimes_ coincidence was too pure not to be orchestrated. Funny, _that_. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled when his brain registered where his eyes happened to fall and he almost flung the book away, convinced it was possessed.

 _Ce visage était épouvantable, si épouvantable qu'il amusait. Il faisait tant peur qu'il faisait rire. Il était infernalement bouffon. C'était le naufrage de la figure humaine dans un mascaron bestial. Jamais on n'avait vu plus totale éclipse de l'homme sur le visage humain, jamais parodie n'avait été plus complète, jamais ébauche plus affreuse n'avait rican dans un cauchemar, jamais tout ce qui peut repousser une femme n'avait été plus hideusement amalgamé dans un homme; l'infortun coeur, masqué et calomnié par cette face, semblait à jamais condamné à la solitude sous ce visage comme sous un couvercle de tombe. Eh bien, non! où s'était épuisée la méchanceté inconnue, la bonté invisible à son tour se dépensait. Dans ce pauvre déchu, tout à coup relevé, à côté de tout ce qui repousse elle mettait ce qui attire, dans l'écueil elle mettait l'aimant, elle faisait accourir à tire d'aile vers cet abandonné une âme, elle chargeait la colombe de consoler le foudroyé, et elle faisait adorer la difformité par la beaulé._

 _This face was frightful, so frightful that it was absurd. It caused as much fear as laughter. It was a hell-concocted absurdity. It was the shipwreck of a human face into the mask of an animal. Never had been seen so total an eclipse of humanity in a human face; never parody more complete; never had apparition more frightful grinned in nightmare; never had everything repulsive to woman been more hideously amalgamated in a man. The unfortunate heart, masked and calumniated by the face, seemed forever condemned to solitude under it, as under a tombstone. Yet no! Where unknown malice had done its worst, invisible goodness had lent its aid. In the poor fallen one, suddenly raised up, by the side of the repulsive, it had placed the attractive; on the barren shoal it had set the loadstone; it had caused a soul to fly with swift wings towards the deserted one; it had sent the dove to console the creature whom the thunderbolt had overwhelmed, and had made beauty adore deformity._

 _Pour que cela fût possible, il fallait que la belle ne vît pas le défiguré. Pour ce bonheur, il fallait ce malheur._

 _For this to be possible it was necessary that beauty should not see the disfigurement. For this good fortune, misfortune was required._

Erik stopped there and closed his eyes; reading the next sentence was unnecessary, he knew it by memory.

 _Providence had made Dea blind._

...but Christine was not, she could see and _had_ _seen._

She had seen the monster in its true form, seen the frightful face, the hell-concocted shipwreck beneath the mask, not of a true animal but of its human equivalent, the mask of a criminal, a murderer. His was the look of a brigand inspiring wary distrust in most; this served him nicely both in his line of work and in repelling the majority of the populace. Oh, how delicious the terror in their eyes was! The sight of them hurrying off or shrinking away amused him endlessly. Yet Hugo's words held more truth than comfort permitted. Was being a reprobate really a badge of honor? He then wondered what it might be like to be whole and unmarred. How would it feel to be a man as any other, to have a father's respect and an unblemished soul, to win a woman's affection? Christine may not have been christened for the Divine as was Dea but to Erik she similarly symbolized the world on high. In they two the universe was complete in its three orders—human, animal, and Divine—with Erik representing both the animal and human, his face half-man, half-beast. Like Gwynplaine he yearned for the redemption and deliverance _she_ alone could give.

But, _why?_

Not for love, no, he could not love, it was fact. Once upon another time, perchance, but his heart hadn't beat in over a year. In the months following his brother's death it had grown black and calcified, never to stir again. He _could not_ love. The worms would have his heart, that was to be his fate as sure as the sun would rise.

Erik was not Gwynplaine; Christine was not Dea. He did not love her, he was _not_ falling in love with her. Love caused suffering, sorrow, and death, Hugo's star-crossed pair had learnt this tragical reality firsthand; he was shrewder than to let himself be likewise blinded again.

Monsters did not get a happy ending.

Gwynplaine _should_ have known; Ursus _should_ have better instilled this lesson in his charges. Christine still clutched his hand, her fingers now interwoven with his and the same blithe tilt to her mouth. Maybe beauty _could_ adore deformity.

Certainly more impossible events had come to pass...

And, he discarded this delusion, exiling it to that rubbish pile containing the random, demented whims from which no man was immune.

He did _not_ love her.

Where Gwynplaine's deformity was limited to the face, Erik was an abomination through and through, corrupted absolutely. His pen moved furiously over the page, the rasp of nib blending with her gentle breathing. He wasn't writing anything specific however he couldn't stop; his maimed hand throbbed in rebellion but he didn't stop. The scratching was requisite, the rhythm it produced compensation for the heart that didn't beat.

Sleeping, she resembled an angel; he had noted the same that first night when she was _Christopher_. Even if he were to want her he did not deserve her.

He could not love.

He was not in love with her.

* * *

 **HE DOES NOT LOVE HER, JEEZ! Give the man a break! A bleak end, I'll admit, but I can assure you all that next chapter's will be much sweeter.**

 **A/N: Part of the reason I split this chapter from its predecessor was so I could include the ending in all its glory without needing to abridge it. When I first stumbled upon Victor Hugo's novel I knew it was perfect and conceived of a situation in which it could be used without seeming trite. Then it came to me as ideas randomly do and I'm very pleased with how it all turned out. For those of you who are curious it's actually a really good book and I highly recommend it as I do _North and South_.**

 ***The 'being chained naked to a rock' is in reference to the Greek myth of Andromeda. I believe I already discussed that one in an earlier chapter.  
**

 ***I already discussed _North and South_ in the last chapter and wasn't planning on incorporating it into the story too much; it was intended as more of a 'mention in passing' deal but while looking back through it, I was like why not give Christine an amusing little anecdote to capture her thoughts as they contrast to Erik's?**

 ** _*L'Homme qui rit_ or _The Man Who Laughs_ is a novel set in 17th century England chronicling the tale of a man called, Gwynplaine, who's been horribly disfigured so that it looks like he's always laughing. The story starts with him, aged 10, being abandoned by a gang of bandits when they sail from England. He sets off into a snowstorm in search of civilization and on the way discovers a dead woman and her infant, who's still alive but barely. He wraps her in his coat and takes her with him not knowing what else to do. The two eventually stumble upon a caravan owned by Ursus, a performer, and his pet wolf, Homo. Ursus gives the children his food and decides to adopt them, naming the baby girl, Dea; it is revealed Dea is blind. Fifteen years later the gang is making their living at fairs throughout southern England, Gwynplaine's deformed face is the crux of their act. Dea, meanwhile, has grown into a beautiful young woman; she and Gwynplaine are in love. Later Gwynplaine comes into the service of the beautiful, spoiled Duchess Josiana, the bastard daughter of King James II, who is attracted to his grace and intrigued by his deformity. While off with the Duchess he learns the truth of his origin: he is actually Fermain the legitimate son of a Marquis - an enemy of King James II; upon his father's death Gwynplaine (Fermain) is abducted on the King's orders and sold to a band of criminals who mutilate children and exhibit them in carnivals. Dea is informed that Gwynplaine is dead and falls ill with grief. However, he is the opposite of dead and has been granted his rightful title and holdings, including a seat in the House of Lords, and slated to marry Josiana. Eventually he renounces his peerage and returns to his adoptive family, who are being deported. He reunites with them on their ship; Dea is overjoyed but the shock is too great for her system and she dies while Ursus faints. Heartbroken, Gwynplaine throws himself into the sea. And it ends with Ursus regaining consciousness and finding Homo howling at the sea. Heartwarming, right?**


	22. Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus

**A/N: Right, I already know I'm terrible and inconsistent but I struggled to write the last part of this chapter. You guys don't know how real the struggle was. Also, editing took a long, long time. No clue why. Hey, you guys get the longest or second longest chapter out of it so... yay!**

 **Okay, so first off, this marks the point in the story where things will deviate from the day-by-day format. Because they're no longer hiking across the island I decided to speed up and condense some things in future, i.e. two or so days might pass in a single chapter rather than just the one. The story won't suffer for it and I'll still put the headline with the date and wherever they're headed.**

 **Secondly: This chapter deserves the M rating. No, not for sexy times but for mention of adult themes (violence, assault, that sort of thing).**

 **Lastly, to all my wonderful (and patient) reviewers: thank you for your continued support, I love reading your comments and smirking to myself.  
**

 **TheCheapSeats - Duly noted, I will try to refrain from going too far with the Classical prose and descriptions.**

 **Gloriana Femina - Welcome to the fic and I'm happy you like it! The Byronic hero is the best, right? The sense of humor, the temper, the arrogance, the whole asshole vibe and underneath it devotion and tenderness; couldn't ask for more. I'm not familiar with the term MRA, though. Care to explain? And, don't worry they will work out all of their issues and come together like two rational, well-adjusted people... _probably_. Yeah, Erik isn't the biggest fan of Raoul - if I'm being honest that never changes for the whole of the story. He'll learn to deal with her attachment to her 'surrogate brother' but he won't like it.  
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 **Child of Dreams and Amelia Mariee - I don't think he's _in love_ with her yet, at least not to his knowledge. At any rate this _is_ Erik so he will deny it as long as humanly possible. Don't expect him to admit it within the near future or willingly. I do have him saying it in a later, very critical chapter and I think I'll keep things that way and not have him say the words a moment sooner. **

**Guest - The wait is over. Sorry I am so slow to update.**

 **Now for a chapter in which we learn more about Erik's past with Andries, see the former in hot water with a certain someone, witness some characters eat a slice of humble pie, and... well, read for yourselves, I've given too much away already.**

* * *

 **9 May - En Route to Tortola**

Twelve days...

Twelve days had passed since her life had met with dramatic upheaval, a number which, as Christine realized upon waking on that twelfth morning, held considerable importance. There were twelve Olympians in ancient Greece and Heracles (Hercules), the famed progeny of one such deity, carried out twelve labors as repentance; the mighty Odin, chief of the Nordic gods, had twelve sons - as did Ishmael in the Bible; Jesus had his twelve disciples and King Arthur his twelve knights; a year was comprised of twelve months, Christmastide of twelve days; in music the system of equal temperament divided an octave into twelve tones; twelve pence made a shilling, twelve inches a foot; Romulus, Rome's first king, appointed twelve lictors as attendants and later Roman law was founded on the _Duodecim Tabulae_ or Twelve Tables. Given the significance of the digit it was felicitous that this dozenth day should begin extraordinarily.

In fact, _extraordinary_ was the only fitting word for Erik was sleeping. Actually slumbering, at rest in Morpheus' arms.

She'd seen him asleep on two, technically three, occasions: once he was in the midst of a nightmare and the other he was drugged, the third—the night he uncovered her secret—she did not count because in retrospect she wasn't positive he _had_ been sleeping.

This time it was undeniable. Never had he looked so relaxed as he did currently slumped over the bed, head resting in the crook of his left arm. His right one remained extended, their fingers still interlaced. Last night she had longed for his embrace but settled for his hand in hers. Ultimately she'd been too timid to ask for what she wished. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, after all she now had a rare opportunity to study him - she could not have done so from a lesser vantage point. Who knew if she would ever get another?

Hoping to catalogue his every detail Christine let her eyes roam unchecked. His hair was the first thing she noticed—more specifically how lovely it was—thick and straight, it was longer and more unkempt than was the typical fashion - a plausible result of his living wild the past month; neither oiled nor parted Erik wore it loosely swept back and hiding the tops of his ears. However, it was the color that truly caught her attention. It was a soft-black, not the opaque, gelid blackness of onyx or coal. Instead it was a warm, rich shade like the fur of the Ariégeois pony Raoul had as a boy.

Distance and poor lighting had not remotely done it justice.

Next her study was drawn to his face, to the structure of his head, the angles of which were strong and grand: he had a powerful jaw, his cheekbones high and elegantly hewn; the eyes, deep-set and trimmed with thick, black lashes that would have been the envy of any vain maid, were of pleasing shape (even when closed), their color breathtaking as their expression was intelligent; and his mouth, with lips moulded to mock and smirk, was full and enticing. Even those parts which she knew solely by outline—the long, straight nose and brooding brow—appeared well-formed. Christine concluded that had the right side of his face not been deformed by tragic circumstance Erik would have been almost appallingly handsome.

Perhaps in antiquity this blight would have been inferred as divine retribution against a mortal whose beauty was an affront to that of Cupid and Apollo.

What she recollected of his disfigurement was ghastly. Trauma had prevented its horrors from being committed to clear memory, yet hideous as it was it didn't rob his aspect of stateliness. At last she was forced to own to it, she _did_ consider him attractive. After so long in fierce denial her soul was lighter for the admission, an admission she planned to keep secret within her bosom.

Her inspection terminated with a gruesome shock, the discovery accidental as her attention roved from head to corded forearm to left hand. Where its mate was long-fingered and recherché this was grotesquely swollen, the knuckles purple and split as though they had been crushed. It looked terribly painful. A token of the voracious river that sought to dispatch them, perchance. Was it damaged yesterday? She couldn't remember. Gingerly, she reached down to stroke the mangled skin and his eyes snapped open; she let go the unmarred appendage she'd been clutching.

"Your hand," she supplied by way of explanation, shaken by his abrupt start. He sat upright and hastily withdrew the sad, broken part from view.

"It looks worse than it is."

"What happened?"

"I have a temper and as you can plainly see flesh and steel make for poor bedfellows."

The cryptic remark was all that was spoken on the subject and Christine knew prying would beget aught. Shortly thereafter he excused himself to go rustle up breakfast. His flight was unsurprising. Erik, more often than not, reminded her of some skittish, feral creature frightened away by the smallest word or movement.

He was not gone long - probably, less than ten or fifteen minutes - but her thoughts made poor company this morning and the happenings of Milton failed to excite. With nothing else to do she entombed herself within the covers and fell back asleep. Temporarily oblivious to the world around her she didn't know that when he returned it was with a proper English breakfast: back bacon, a fried egg, sausage, toast, and even a tomato he had managed to lay hands on. Disappointed but unwilling to disturb her Erik set the tray down and left; it would have to do cold, hopefully she would value his efforts when she woke.

Although it was a misconception to say she couldn't appreciate it. Snatches of the delicious aroma wafted into her nostrils and were incorporated into her dreams. In her mind she was in their breakfast room back in Oxfordshire, Mrs Reed had prepared a veritable feast to celebrate her homecoming. It tasted as divine as it smelled. She could scarcely move for eating so much, not a morsel remained yet the scent persisted, built up until it finally roused her and there on the table sat the exact contents of her dream.

Ravenous, she scrambled out of bed quick as her legs would allow and fell upon the fare, no longer hot but splendid even so. A _real_ breakfast bedecked with the comforts of home, not a dry biscuit or tin of milk in sight. The weight of the action hit her later. Christine was chuffed, of all Erik's kindly gestures this ranked alongside his saving her life, at least in her opinion. She was compelled to tell him this, to express her thankfulness. So she dressed, paying careful heed to her disguise - she doubted anyone besides Erik and the captain knew - and went off to thank him.

Instinctively she started in the direction of his cabin, halting midway. Something told her that path would lead nowhere. Now, what? Well, she didn't know _that_ either. In her limited run of the ship she hadn't mapped out anything save his and her own respective quarters. Like one faced with a dead-end in a hedge maze she froze and waited for an idea to come to her on a clear breeze of thought.

 _If not with you and not alone, he's presumably with his_ other _familiar,_ it said _, and where would said familiar be at nearly midday if not in his cabin?_ It was obvious. Beaming, swagger in her step, Christine made her way upwards.

 **o o o**

The dark of night had melted into a grey day. A dingy, impenetrable whiteness blanketed the sky smothering all sunlight and projecting a sense of gloom, the kind that casts a pall as miserable as the atmosphere overhead. These suffocating clouds had no purpose outside despair, unproductive and non-beneficial they sat stagnantly bringing with them neither rain nor wind.

Morale would be nonexistent today, cognizant of this fact Christine carried on without asking the crew for aid. Not that she'd have gotten it anyway, they were keen to ignore her, which, was probably for the best.

It soon became apparent no assistance was needed, she found her quarry within minutes. Just as Christine had guessed he was with the captain. The two men sat upon upturned crates, a makeshift table of a barrel between them and on it a chessboard. White was losing, _badly_. Erik already wore his characteristic gloating smirk while his opponent scowled and swore.

"Look alive, Andries, and mind your language," the masked man drawled, capturing a pawn _en passant_ , "there are delicate ears present."

Funny that censure should come from one whose mouth could rival the most uncouth sailor but she didn't vocalize this observation.

Captain Lombaard's glower dissolved into pleasantness when he beheld her, the gleam in his eye espousing a fatherly sentiment. Erik's gaze followed meeting hers; Christine's heartbeat stuttered.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"I did, yes. Thank you for your generosity, I do hope I'm not imposing. If you'd like your quarters back I'm sure I'd be perfectly fine somewhere—"

Her gratitude was dismissed. "Nonsense! I won't hear of it. You're my guest." Christine toed at the wood of the deck. In spite of his blessing she still felt she was taking advantage. This internal conflict didn't escape his notice for he added, "Captain's orders, you must obey."

"Well, then, maybe I could lend a hand instead, sir?"

"You've a good heart but I fear I'm beyond help, child." Christine cocked her head at his strange answer, unsure if they were discussing the same thing.

"Indeed, it would take a miracle by Hume's definition to stay his defeat." Erik interposed with a snort.

Oh, the _game_! They thought she referred to the match at hand. And, inspirited by her escort's comment, she shelved her previous inquiry to show off.

"Hume was a crackpot who manipulated logic to make his assertions incontestable." His look of astonishment was a sweet reward. Christine couldn't refrain from asking if he was surprised by her familiarity with Hume's work; he responded with a wry smile.

"That much is irrefutable, young Daaé. However, do you not agree that our dear captain's victory would necessitate a direct violation against the laws of nature as we know them, an occurrence so singular that even Hume would be forced to call it a miracle? Triumph is a statistical impossibility. We two are witnesses to this fact, yes? All others, in their _right_ minds, would concur. The only dissenting party would be Andries whose opinion is equivalent to that of a simpleton and therefore unreliable."

"I've forgotten, Grey," the captain said, "can you swim? I do hope so."

Erik glanced at her and shook his head somberly. "Thus my point is illustrated." She giggled as he turned back to his foe. "Why?"

"It will soothe my conscience when I throw you overboard." To her infinite shock he laughed. A stab of annoyance hit her below the ribs. Where was this casual humor when it came to her? On the rare chance he did joke she was the target, while her jests were in turn received with stony silence or outright hostility. Captain Lombaard, on the other hand, could threaten or deride and win a chuckle! From the beginning she'd been envious but lately Christine's desire to occupy a similar position in Erik's regard had grown fierce.

By-and-by the twosome lapsed into Afrikaans and this jealous, petty part of her interrupted gleefully. "Truly, sir, I would feel like less of a burden if I could be useful. I'm no sailor but I am a keen study, I could spool rope or make repairs. Surely the crew wouldn't object to an extra set of hands when it comes time to..." She faltered, unnerved by the captain's expression; the last emerged constricted, "... _haul_ in the nets."

Andries studied her curiously. "Nets?"

"Shouldn't we be catching fish to maintain the illusion?" He was gawking at her, the same look one gave a raving lunatic. The revelation did little to appease her nerves.

"Catch fish? _Why_ would—" A grin spread across his weathered face. "Did you tell Chris _Cornelia Anne_ was a trawler?" Erik looked as though he'd swallowed something bitter; his rejoinder was thick, barely-audible.

"I don't understand," Christine's voice broke through the subsequent guffaw, "if you aren't a fisherman...?"

"I'm a smuggler."

"I _see,_ " Her head was spinning; both men were staring. She couldn't remain here where her brain was bedlam and her ears were burning. "Excuse me, I must _—only I've forgotten to..._ " Without another word she fled from the spot hurrying below as comprehension struck her in earnest.

 _A smuggler._

Amiable Captain Lombaard with his mild green eyes was a scoundrel, a lawless rogue like Erik. This was a ship of criminals not a vessel of honorable, hard-working sailors. It definitely explained the furtive, suspicious nature of the crew. There was no telling _what_ they smuggled and she had no drive to investigate, for all she knew it could be as innocuous as soap or deplorable as human beings yet it didn't matter. Smugglers were smugglers the same as liars were liars.

Hadn't he sworn he would never lie?

An abundance of trust had been instilled in him during their tenure together, none of it lightly given. Though taciturn she'd convinced herself he was honest at his core, a grave mistake on her part. Now she contemplated what else he had lied about; the thought made her stomach roil. God, she was blind! Knowing him, knowing _what_ he was, why had she ever accorded him the benefit of the doubt? She was just as gullible as those artless _demoiselles en détresse_ she ridiculed. How easily she had been swayed by his dark charms, it was the _height_ of pathetic!

"Christine!"

Her pace quickened. She would rather be swallowed by the waves below than face him; her heart would seize altogether in a deadly paroxysm if she met those eyes. Ahead she could see the door to her cabin, her asylum. Again her name was repeated; she broke into a run.

There was a meter to go—

But she never made it.

His hand curled around her arm as she touched the metal _._

In that instant she wished a sea monster of old would rise up and devour him. Fuming, she whirled round like a cornered animal. All she knew was fury. Her vision was a red, watery blur. Fight response triggered she lashed out blindly, not recognizing her own hand arcing upwards until a smack—skin on skin—reverberated through the corridor. The noise promptly brought her back to her senses.

Time lagged as she watched his head snap back to face her, his eyes blazing with sulfurous blue flame stolen from Peleé itself. Erik's every particle of attention was fixed onto her. Christine still hovered in the realm of incredulity. She couldn't believe that she'd slapped him despite the evidence before her, despite her smarting palm. When he spoke it was with a tense chord of warning.

"I was wrong to have deceived you but you will _never_ strike me again."

The severity of his expression was enough to induce hesitation, the force of his command enough to arrest the air itself.

Then it _wasn't._

"I won't obey the demands of a liar!" She shoved him, _hard._ It was delectation to see him stumble yet this joy was fleeting, her wrists were immediately ensnared in his grasp.

"Are you quite finished with your tantrum?" The lofty admonishment flooded her with rage, she was _not_ a naughty child to be scolded and subjected to his condescension! Christine's temper surged with new life.

" _FUCK OFF, ERIK!_ "

His dumbstruck look mirrored her own. Come to think, it was the only time she'd seen him floored. Had she freedom to move her hands Christine would have clapped one to her mouth in disgrace. True, she was no stranger to coarse language. She had sworn in front of (and at) him in several instances, including taking the Lord's name in vain, but she'd never uttered _that_ word in her life. What had she become? He was the first to recover - likely owing to his intimacy with vulgarities, especially that particular one.

"Mind your tongue, _girl,_ " Erik's tone had taken a dangerous turn. He towered over her seething and so near, _too_ near; she could distinguish the darker threads of color in his pale irises shimmering with wrath. Tension stretched so taut between them that were one to pluck it a note would sound. It was difficult to breathe, harder still to think. "I'll not be spoken to in that manner."

If provocation was his goal he succeeded admirably, his statement the final nail in the coffin. All hell broke loose with Christine's furious shriek.

" _SHUT UP, WOULD YOU?! JUST SHUT UP!_ "

Her mouth was practically foaming with spittle, her eyes bugging. She must have looked rabid! How dare he reprimand her? That she was an accomplice to criminals was inconsequential - _yes_ , it was a bombshell but the real upset stemmed from being deliberately misled. Christine had placed total faith in him. Remained by his side in spite of the constant bullying, even after he threatened her, after he wrapped his hands around her neck, _after_ he exposed the monstrosity that was his face; she had stayed in spite of his lustful confessions, some of which would have made a whore blush; she had stayed following that stolen kiss, her _first_. Anyone else would have deserted an unscrupulous bastard like Erik Grey _long_ ago yet she hadn't. On the contrary her opinion of him had evolved from abhorrence to affection and recently into something she could not name.

She was a consummate idiot. Loyalty had bought her duplicity plain and ugly. The betrayal stung acutely. What a fool she'd been to believe Erik felt anything for her, that he cared! He was heartless through and through, unfeeling in every sense of the word. Her tears flowed freely; she wouldn't, _couldn't_ , look at him.

"What other falsehoods have you fed me, Erik? Has everything been a lie?"

"Given your candor on criminality I thought you would have refused to leave had you known the truth. It was ... _underhanded_ on my part but I've not made a habit of deceit, aside from this you've only ever had my honesty."

"How can I be sure?"

"You have my word."

"Your word is worthless." Her retort came like a jury's verdict, swift and harsh. There was a flash of what resembled hurt in his eyes, gone as fast as it came.

"What is it you seek?"

"Something more than meaningless assurances."

" _Fine,_ " It was issued on an exhale, as if on the verge of confession. "I will admit I've given you ample cause for doubt. Once I would have lied to you without compunction _but_ — Look at me, Christine," His order was gentle, more plea than command. Railing against common sense, she assented; her skin thrummed when he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "I find that I can no longer do so."

" _Why?_ " she asked breathlessly.

"Because I've..." He was leaning in, closing the space between them. "... _b_ _ecause_ I've come to—"

The words died before they could be voiced, cut short by the lively conversation of two approaching sailors.

Here was her opening.

Christine took it without deliberation, slipping through the door and bolting it securely. She maintained her composure until she heard his forlorn whisper and retreat of his footsteps.

 _Forgive me, Christine._

All at once she came apart, the sobs escaping her with fresh vigor.

 **o o o**

Hours passed, the gloom of afternoon bleeding into a moonless, starless night. Not once did she leave her cabin. At some point one of the more sociable crewmen—a boy younger than her called Patrick or Patrice—brought her stew and bread. Christine was left in peace the rest of the evening. This isolation, initially welcomed, fast became too much. She needed fresh air. Confident she wouldn't be bothered at this hour she sneaked above.

The nighttime view made for a curious sight: darkness far as the eye could see, the horizon impossible to discern. There was no telling if visibility extended for feet or miles. Ocean intersected sky in a homogenized black mass making it seem like the ship was trapped in a bubble of India ink. Evening was unexpectedly cool, a byproduct of the recent spate of eruptions choking out the sun's warmth. Shivering, Christine lamented that she hadn't had the foresight to don an extra layer.

Despite the cold and absence of constellations there was a definite tranquility to this place. But, as with most instances of the sort, it did not last. Over the chop of waves and din of the engines came the unmistakable sound of footfalls, too heavy to be Erik's (that she'd heard at all ruled him out as the source). Poised, she watched and waited her hand migrating to the knife at her thigh. Christine exhaled in relief to see the captain. His choice of occupation notwithstanding Andries was an agreeable man. At present she didn't begrudge his company.

"Ah, Miss Daaé, you've saved me the trouble of seeking you out. If I upset you this morning, I'm sorry." His thoughtful words brought a smile to her face.

"My reaction was rude. You had no hand in the deception, for that only _one_ person is responsible."

"I can't speak to Erik's reasons but he probably thought them valid."

Christine concentrated on the yonder void in an attempt to overlook the sting of a reopened wound; she choked back tears and steeled herself to speak.

"They were grounded in selfishness cowardice, that's the whole of it."

" _Maybe,_ " he conceded, "though, he wouldn't be the first man to misstep while trying to do right."

"I might believe that were it someone else. Erik, however, is self-serving, misleading me was purely to avoid inconveniencing himself."

Andries chuckled. "True, he can be er, _difficult_ but his heart is 'in the right place', as it is said."

"Of _that_ I remain unconvinced." she returned pettishly. The captain heaved his brawny shoulders in a shrug.

"Not even the most selfless of us is free from poor choices." He paused in pensive reflection, his next sentence came quietly, almost lost to the discord of waves and wind. "I wasn't always a smuggler, not so long ago I was a farmer, a husband and father." A sigh, "That was another time, a life before the war."

Unthinking and encouraged by this openness Christine blurted the question plaguing her mind since yesterday. "How did you and Erik meet?" The breeze strengthened abruptly then and her teeth began to chatter. These temperatures were reminiscent of the North Sea, _not_ late spring in the Caribbean!

"This conversation would be better continued inside, yes? The galley will be empty." Entranced by the prospect of discovery she followed, settling at a table while he fetched a lantern; the effect of shelter was instant, she was glad for the suggestion.

"Now, to answer your query," he said joining her, "We met in the war fighting on opposite sides." He gave a great, booming laugh, his brown skin crinkling.

"Opposite sides?! But, _how_?" Of all the potential scenarios, never had she predicted this! Christine wracked her brain for an explanation and conjured a blank. Eagerly she awaited his reply.

"I was a boy during the _Eerste Vryheidsoorlog -_ what you British call the first Boer War." Andries elaborated. "I was not so young when conflict erupted again. Before I begin you must understand the nature of war, it transforms men into monsters and murderers. The heat of battle triggers a primal instinct, a man has two choices: _kill_ or _be killed_. If he survives killing becomes easier with every shot, knife thrust, or sword slash. Over time he feels less remorse, less hesitation until it is as second nature as breathing. Eventually he starts seeing bodies instead of people in his sights, hollow shells for a tally. We are none of us immune, not the greenest youth, softest dandy, or most seasoned soldier; I've seen each turn savage. Goodness turns to ash in war. It's a tough lesson for the gentle lads but either they come round or _don't_. The cruel ones have an easy time, for them it's sport; their eyes have never been more alive, delight glitters like diamond. I saw many a horror left in their wake, none merit the decency of words. My Kommando was full of cruel men, they did despicable things and I tried to stand against them. However, one man can only do so much; I informed on them hoping my _veldkornet_ would intervene. They were punished but not with the severity befitting their crimes. We needed soldiers, you see, and couldn't afford to sacrifice even the maddest of dogs. And, as with mad dogs they were quick to turn on their own."

Captain Lombaard's voice grew tight, "I was ambushed during my Sunday leave, knocked insensible. I awoke in my house gagged and chained. On the wall was written in blood, _my_ blood: _v_ _erraaier_. They set it ablaze. _My_ —" He didn't bother to wipe the moisture rambling down his cheeks. When he looked up his eyes had metamorphosed into pools of smoking, weeping green acid. "My _wife_ , my Cornelia and our daughter, my darling Anne, were trapped in another room. I could hear their screams, their pleas... I couldn't free myself no matter how hard I fought. I failed my family. I was weak, unfit to live, I begged Death to take me. The door burst open as the ceiling started to crumble and through the smoke came a masked figure. At the time I thought it either angel or demon, I didn't realize he was a man same as me."

A gasp tumbled from her open mouth. The masked savior's identity required no confirmation.

"He picked the locks on my chains and carried me out of the inferno. It was later that I discovered I'd been rescued by the enemy soldier known as _die spook_ , the ghost. His name was legend." The captain eyed her, reading her tacit thoughts, "You're not alone in wondering why, God knows I did and still do."

She spoke up then, "He never told you?!"

"No. I hated him for it, almost as much as I hated myself for living. I assumed I was intended for a prisoner but when he came to me it was to tell me I was a free man; he had a horse and supplies waiting while I healed. His superiors disallowed it, planned to send me to one of their camps. I was freed the night before, once again saved by _die spook_. I confronted him, asked him why; he said it was because he had given his word."

 _His word.  
_

The phrase hung in the air mockingly. Her face burned with shame; she had falsely judged him yet again chastising him from atop her high horse. Once more her callow ethics had led her astray.

"I defected soon after, turned informant against my people. The British grudgingly welcomed me, they were having a hard go of it in the beginning. I became a spy and contributed to the demise of all I knew, became a man without a country. They released me two months after the sieges had lifted. I used my savings to come to the Caribbean and buy a boat, named her in memory of what I lost. I've not looked back since."

Andries took a swig from his flask and grimaced, "In the end I suppose they were right to call me _verraaier_."

 **o o o**

An hour after the weighty conversation with Andries found Christine back on the deck of _Cornelia Anne_ , a name which now carried a heartbreaking poignancy. Naturally he had insisted upon escorting her to her cabin. Before retiring he made casual mention of a bottle of wine stashed in his trunk.

 _Feel free to imbibe as much as you'd like, I was saving it for a special occasion but I think you are in greater need_ , he had said. When she protested he laughed and told her he'd send Erik the bill if it eased her conscience.

That was how he left her, undoubtedly expecting her to turn in.

But how could she?

She hadn't ever given much thought to the damage war wrought, _not_ because she wished to ignore reality's unpleasant side; it was simply so far-removed from her sphere of daily life that it was never of consequence. Just as a prince raised in a castle cannot conceive of the struggles faced by his impoverished subjects.

 _Now_ , however...

Christine was dreadfully ashamed of her naïveté. His was the account of one soldier out of millions, just _one_ life rent to pieces. There were countless impacted, not just enlisted men, but their families and civilians with no stake in the conflict. What were their stories? How many sons, fathers, husbands, brothers, and sweethearts would never come home? How many had been maimed by bullets or shells? How many more would suffer in future? For, while the end was nigh, the war was not yet over, not officially. How many would die before that day? What of the subsequent years, the lasting effects felt both by the land and within the minds of men?

Her problems were put into rude perspective. Nightmares, trauma, she knew not the first thing about either. Here she was snivelling over an ordeal she barely witnessed while others aboard had seen real anguish, had lived it. Erik was right, she was little more than a lost and frightened girl.

 _Oh, Erik_.

Lord, she had been horrid to him! Christine recalled their last interaction laden with guilt. In hindsight her response had been childish; an innocuous lie was trivial in the scheme of things. For all his misconduct he had been good to her - she couldn't imagine anyone but papa staying by her side all night to allay her fears, but _he_ had. Whereas her father was obligated as her only surviving parent, Erik was under no such constraint. He wasn't responsible for anything outside of her basic comfort and safety yet overstepped his role as escort and guardian. That sociability and tenderness were for him sources of discomfort made these indulgences more significant, she'd been myopic and ungrateful.

"Lost in thought?"

"Erik!" She gifted him a warm smile. He came to stand beside her, regarding her warily. "Is something the matter?"

"I confess I didn't anticipate I'd be well-received."

"Oh," Regret welled up in her chest. "Then why did you come?" Erik shrugged. The curtain of silence descended again.

"What is _ver-verraaier_?"

"It means traitor." A frown pulled at his forehead, his stare trained straight ahead. "You spoke with Andries, you're curious as to why I saved him." he guessed.

"Truthfully, I too periodically ask myself. It certainly won me no accolades or appreciation. I once told you that I was a part of a specialized Highland regiment, I neglected to mention that the Lovat Scouts weren't created until six months into the war. I was a free agent at the beginning. Guerilla tactics aren't unique to the Boers; they excelled in them, yes, but in me they had a worthy opponent. My skills in stealth and tracking made me an efficient tool. Doubtlessly Andries has told you of the epithet I earned, but I was meant primarily to serve as an observer. As such I saw acts of evil from both sides, atrocities plain and simple. Even disillusioned as I was I could scarcely believe the barbarity of man. It happened during the Siege of Kimberly. The town was shelled relentlessly and the civilians terrified, mad with hunger and fear. Andries' Kommando discovered them: a husband and wife, British - _uitlanders_. First they took clothes, money, anything of value; sieges are difficult on all involved. But, discord is powerful and the innocent suffer. The husband was fortunate, a bullet to the heart. His wife was not." His eyes narrowed, darkening with rage or sorrow; she couldn't tell which. "They raped her. Fifteen, perhaps twenty men, like animals in a frenzy. It was me looking down upon an army seven thousand strong, to shoot would have given my position away. And, for what? I could not have saved her. I was a coward, complicit and weak. Andries wasn't, he tried where I did not. He went against his compatriots in defense of a daughter of the enemy, and was labelled a traitor, _verraaier_ , fated to be punished for his decency. I followed them that night. I rescued him because I saw in him what the world is in desperate need of: compassion. The others, I killed, slowly. Left their corpses for the vultures and jackals." He tousled his hair but said nothing further.

For a time it was just they two in reticence looking out over the dark expanse.

Then she remembered her prior purpose. "I forgot to thank you earlier... for the breakfast; it was delicious. I've not eaten that well since leaving home."

"Oh, _yes_ ," he mumbled, "of course."

 **o o o**

Again she couldn't sleep, again restlessness jammed its foot under her eyelids. Inside her head fatigue battled agitation; she was woefully tired. Tonight it was not the nightmares that kept her awake but something more disconcerting: thoughts of _him_. These commandeered her mind in the wake of their conversation; she dwelt upon his explanation; pondered how else war had affected him; ruminated over what he'd done for her. Above all she castigated herself for not apologizing. Morality had blinded and corrupted her, she had thrown a tantrum worthy of the most awful brat or termagant. She should have apologized; she had been sure to thank him for breakfast - why hadn't she apologized? Christine sat up in bed and uncorked the bottle of wine with a sigh.

This whirlwind of frustration and regret gave her a headache. She had to act or go mad where she sat. Even in the beginning—when their rapport had made cats and dogs seem like comparative chums—he had ensured her comfort, packed her clothes and precious sketches. Even on the night they first met—when he appeared as like to strangle her as give her the time—he had shown her sympathy, providing a sleeping draught to chase away the images of death. Erik was abrasive, antagonistic, arrogant, and guilty of the worst sins imaginable and she ... _wasn't any better._ Hers was a disparate kind of wickedness, she may not have broken any law of God or man but she had allowed herself to be ruled by prejudice and hypocrisy. By what right did she reprimand him for dishonesty when she had been _living_ a lie? His deception was trivial in contrast.

What was that line from Byron's, _Don Juan_?

 _And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in masquerade._

Restive, Christine hopped out of bed and paced the floor toying with a hank of hair as she walked. She chuckled nervously when she glimpsed her reflection in the looking glass, it was the definition of contrary; she took another large swig of wine and _another_ until the bottle was empty - when had she finished the whole thing?

This was no good.

Something _had_ to be done.

Her jejune attitude needed to be squashed. Christine Daaé was a woman, not a girl, and it was high time she acted it! There was a resolution, a way to clear her conscience. It might be unpleasant but doing the honorable thing often was, the blow to her dignity would be survivable and she'd be stronger for it. So, imbued with determination, wine, and a newfound womanly confidence she marched straight to his cabin and boldly knocked.

Rather than a grant of entry the door swung inward catching her off-guard. Drat! Mayhap she hadn't been as well-prepared as previously believed.

"Christine," Erik addressed chastely.

"How did you...?"

"Much as I'd like to claim omniscience I heard you coming, an elephant might have trod lighter."

"You shouldn't flatter me so." she said of the unfavorable comparison; he shrugged.

"Merely an observation."

"And such a charming one too, for it's the dream of every woman to be likened to a giant lumbering mammal. May I come in? That is, if you think I'll fit through the doorway." Wordlessly he moved aside and Christine closed the door behind her.

"Still finding sleep elusive?"

"Yes, but not because of the nightmares."

"Explain."

"I can't sleep because of," There was no deft way of saying it. "... _well,_ because of _you._ " He set his jaw, his concentration locked onto whatever lay before him.

"Haunted by my confession, little princess?" He sneered, his pen scratching furiously at the paper, "You were already aware of my being a soulless fiend. Surely any additional evidence of the fact is redundant at this point."

"No! You are not to blame, I— _I_ am. I've been hasty in my condemnation. I never considered anything removed from my own narrow view. I thought the world divisible into either good or evil, _I never_ _considered..._ Captain Lombaard has shown me the error of such thinking. I've no right to denounce you as a liar when I pretended to be someone else, when I'd have maintained the charade if you hadn't discovered the truth. That's truly the worst of it. No matter how close we grew or how much you trusted me I would never have told you; I _know_ I wouldn't have."

Christine was dismayed to see his focus hadn't shifted; he was still writing albeit slower, softer. "Won't you look at me as I speak?"

"There's no need, I am listening."

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief, for a moment she was speechless. Did he know what it had cost to come here, to swallow her pride and admit wrongdoing? It railed against the crux of her being, she'd be damned if he dismissed her! Driven by an angry whim Christine stepped between Erik and the blasted desk. The plan played out well in her mind but reality wasn't so flawless. She misjudged the space and was forced to balance on her toes to avoid falling onto him, not the most dignified position.

"What are you doing? Careful, girl, you'll crease my papers."

"Now you've no choice but to hear me out." Erik rose from his seat and leaned forward trapping her with his hands. Intimidation was his way of repaying her impudence.

"And what _else_ have you to say?"

" _I'm_ —I'm sorry. I've been severe and misguided in my judgment of you."

"Is that all then?" Christine tore her gaze from his battered hand and met his eyes. This was a test. He was waiting for her to fold, she wouldn't; though his probing stare did make her stumble.

"No... I mean, yes! I—"

"Which is it?"

What to say, what to do? The alcohol rose in an effervescent wave, occluding her mind - or maybe it was his proximity? Whatever the cause she couldn't think. Action appeared the more logical course, better than _inaction_. What to do? Her attention was drawn to his mouth: haughty, domineering, _succulent_.

 _What ... to ... do?_

Forethought was overrated, impulse deserved its day.

Christine did the unthinkable and pressed her lips to his. Caught in the middle of thrill and fright, she quickly pulled away. What had she done? His eyes went wide with shock before growing turbid and feral; his breathing came heavy, his nostrils flaring beneath the mask. There was a lull, the calm before the storm. She had time to draw one more shaky inhale before his mouth crushed hers. He grabbed her hair by the fistful, loosing the bit of ribbon that secured it at her nape and freeing her curls, all the while holding her steady as he plundered her mouth; his other hand meandered down her back trailing the curve of her spine and wandering lower.

Suddenly she was being lifted and walked forward, he sank into the desk chair pulling her astride him. Her breath caught to feel him beneath her, the taut muscles of his legs, the hard bite of his hipbones, the insistent rigidity of _his..._

One hand rose to span her rib-cage, a palm traced the curve of her waist, fingers skimming just below her breast, his thumb swept upwards to brush her nipple. She gasped, a tremor tore through her body and she reflexively ground into him. Erik groaned, his fingertips flew to her hips and dug in harshly pinning her in place as he thrust upwards to meet her. He fed off her moan and the pinch of her nails at his shoulders; his hand hurt violently but its complaints were disregarded.

She tasted of wine, of sweetness and desire. That she wanted him was obvious in the messy lack of inhibition within her kiss. Christ, was she drunk? It would certainly explain the slur of her walk, the imperceptible drag and sway to her step; the way she saucily asserted herself, insisting he look at her; that she had kissed him. He could not do this. Naïve and intoxicated, it would be tantamount to taking her by force. But, oh God - with her gasps, sighs, and mewls, the way she rocked against him, the satin smoothness of her thigh under hand - he couldn't resist. Could any man with this insatiable siren testing, teasing? It had been so long since he last indulged himself, even a patient man would be hard-pressed to refuse that which fell so willingly into his lap.

So very willing, so damn aching. Just how much manifested itself as a damp heat through the fabric of his trousers.

Erik had never claimed to be a patient man.

He nearly took her then and there.

The things she was doing to him with only a clumsy, erratic twist of hip! He was more far-gone than he reasonably should be. Dear Lord, if she kept this up he was in real danger of embarrassing himself.

His lips were everywhere and all at once: at her jaw, her earlobe, her neck, inscribing a line of want down along her collarbone and across the tops of her breasts. Her body was burning, every inch aflame; she was roasting from the inside. A gathering anticipation collected in the pit of her stomach, trickling downward to that secret tingling part of her. She squirmed restlessly, her body declaring being static an impossibility. Movement seemed the remedy, the guarantor of release from whatever had seized her. That mouth, their mingled breath, the velvet slide of his lips, the silken rub of tongue and nip of teeth were all that was, were _everything_. And, she could scarcely remember how they arrived _here_ , her straddling him writhing indecently; his hand journeying up her thigh; his mouth searing her skin, drawing perilously close to her still-covered nipple. How, again?

Ah, _yes_ , she had kissed him...

Of course, she was wicked and wanton ... _and_ didn't care in the least. They were sinners, shameless lechers, but, Holy Father, his hand massaging her breast, that hardness pressed to the throbbing, impatient place between her legs! Christine sought to pull him closer, her fingers like talons hooked into his flesh. So dizzy. Her head was pounding. It felt weighted with lead. There was pressure behind her temples, her skull creaked under the strain. Was she dying? She nuzzled into his neck and hid from the faintness threatening to overtake her.

Several unresponsive seconds had him concerned. One moment she was there, the next _nothing_. The warm flutter of breath against his skin told him she still lived. What the devil was going on then? Had she swooned, _had she...?_

"Christine?" he whispered in her ear; she didn't stir. Then it came, a muffled snore.

She had fallen asleep!

Erik paused, torn between his stinging ego and the urge to laugh. He could not claim to have ever been in a similar situation; drowsiness was supposed to follow, not precede, the act of love. Perhaps his alleged skills as a lover merited reassessment. Equal parts humbled and amused he gathered her in his arms unable to suppress a grin as he placed her in bed and draped a blanket over her. A surprise at every turn, young Christine Daaé was unlike any woman he'd ever met: Hervor, Imogen, and Cleopatra fused into one unassuming slip of a girl. Erik tenderly brushed a curl off her forehead. She was an angel, innocence incarnate: the amalgamation of everything good in this unforgiving world. Everything a thrice-damned demon such as he could never hope to have.

Beauty could grow to adore deformity of the body but never of the soul.

Unlike Gwynplaine, unlike the Beast from that fairy tale, he was twisted both inside and out.

His smile died. There was a gnawing sensation in his chest; he compressed his lips recollecting a line from, _Hamlet_.

Horatio's farewell to his dead prince was a touch melodramatic for an adieu, to be sure, yet oddly relevant. While veil of death did not separate him from Christine their barrier was just as insurmountable, the living couldn't serve the dead no more than monsters could woo angels. Like all of Shakespeare's tragic players they were doomed from the start.

This would have struck a deep blow _if_ he had loved her, how fortunate that he did not. Still, it was a morose prospect. A lump formed in his throat to reflect on it.

 _Now cracks a noble heart._ —

"Good night, little princess." he intoned fondly, his susurration blending with the room's hush. She slumbered on, oblivious.

Deep in thought, he quit the cabin and took to the night.

He could _not_ love.

So why was he falling?

* * *

 **Ha! Bet none of you saw that one coming. Poor, drunk Christine, such a wet blanket falling asleep...**

 **I know some of you will curse me for teasing you but I _did_ warn you that the sexual tension would get worse until it just explodes.**

 **What a tragic backstory for the nice old captain! And, what of Erik? See, he _does_ have a good side. There will be more glimpses like this into his past until you know his whole story and what made him the man he is today including flashbacks of his childhood, those mystery years spent in India, and that dead brother haunting him. **

**A/N: All the facts about the number twelve are real, you can look them up - especially that dubious one about 12 inches being in a foot and a year being 12 months. I thought it interesting at least because we're always hearing about other numbers like 3, 7, and 13 but 12 is sort of overlooked. I thought it fit nicely.**

 ***David Hume was a Scottish philosopher from the 18th century and while some of his stuff is on par with greats like John Locke and Francis Bacon his view on miracles is like... what? Basically he argues that miracles cannot be believed without hardcore evidence from reliable sources and since they occur so rarely his logic pretty much makes it impossible that one could happen. He got criticized for this - some dude wrote an entire book about how wrong Hume was - and his arguments labelled as circular.**

 ***On Afrikaans words: _Eerste Vryheidsoorlog -_ translates to, 'First Freedom War'; it's what the Boers called the first Boer War. _Veldkornet_ \- field cornet; a superior officer in charge of a Kommando (group of soldiers). _Verraaier_ \- traitor. _Uitlander_ \- (outlander) foreigner; term for British migrants who came into South Africa and displaced the Boers.**

 ***The sieges to which Andries refers are: Ladysmith (November 1899 - February 1900), Mafeking (October 1899 - May 1900), and Erik mentioned Kimberly (October 1899 - February 1900). Note: The war didn't end until 31 May 1902 so it is still going on during the course of this story. We know why Andries is not fighting but haven't yet learned why Erik has been discharged.**

 ***Yes, the infamous Lord Byron wrote a poem about the legend of Don Juan; it's intriguing because in his version Don Juan is the seduced and not the seducer. Worth a read if you like Byron, the original _Byronic_ hero. **

***Hervor (daughter of Heidrek) was a shieldmaiden, a woman warrior. Imogen is from Shakespeare's, _Cymbeline_. And, we all know who Cleopatra was. Basically three parts of Christine's person according to Erik, as compared to famous women of myth, life, and literature: the strength and fierce will (Hervor); the tender innocence (Imogen); and the seductress (Cleopatra). I went with Cleopatra because she was the most favorable comparison, others like Delilah and Eve from the Bible, Sirens, etc. are not flattering comparisons. **

***I wanted to put my own spin on that popular line from _Hamlet._  
**


	23. No more yielding but a dream

**A/N: So, once again I got carried away and was forced to split up chapters. :P  
**

 **Anyway, I hope you guys like getting into the heads of our characters because that's where you'll be for a good portion of this chapter. Poor Erik is a mess but can you really blame him? And, there's bound to be some confusion for Christine after last night. Ah, it seems shit is about to hit the fan so to say. The angst will definitely be palpable and the rating deserved. **

**Also, you guys are the sweetest reviewers _ever_! You don't know how thrilled I am that this story is being enjoyed.  
**

 **Welcome, AlwaysLaughing.x! And, daae00, try not to die on me. As for JigglyPuff334 (Hannah) - digging the Pokémon reference and try not to make me blush next time; for real, I do love getting reviews like this and they do mean the world to me.**

* * *

 **10 May - En Route to Tortola  
**

An hour of pacing the deck served to cool Erik's blood, the cold, staccato gusts flagellating his skin as punishment for the sin of lust. But, neither wind nor time alone did anything to alleviate the dull, desperate ache in his loins. For that there was one remedy and he dare not seek it. Were he alone in his quarters, were _she_ —that maddening siren—not currently sprawled out on his bed half-naked, perhaps... No, damn it, not even then. He let out a low growl clenching his fists and welcoming the pain that stabbed through stiff, bloated digits. One errant thought and his body again burned; though, agony did somewhat abrade frustration's keen edge. His gaze fell to his right hand, whole and undamaged, the reprieve to be found in fingers and palm tempting—

 _...no, he mustn't!  
_

Erik sighed.

Self-imposed martyrdom was a sad, drab existence.

It was going to be a _long_ voyage back to Oxfordshire.

That was, of course, assuming he survived.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph just muddling through the next twenty-four hours was going to necessitate every inch of his control!

 _Steady on!_ cried a voice in his head, _this is the mindset of a rutting animal or adolescent boy,_ not _a man._ It was right.

He needed to stop and contemplate; the time for serious introspection was nigh.

Did _this_ —did walking away make him a masochist? While he would not own to the pleasure in denial he seemed to be gaining quite the penchant for it. Most men would have taken what they yearned for every hour of every miserable day, thirsted for at a cellular level, by now. Christ, the barest morsel would have sustained him! To simply lie beside her and deck her ivory skin with affectionate kisses would have proven satisfactory. Surely, there was nothing impure in _that_. So, should he not have stayed, joined her in bed and held her close? Even a man with a comparable talent for self-doubt could not have deluded himself into thinking he'd be rejected. Christine _did_ want him, that much was evident - at least she thought so.

It was as elementary a case of mutual desire as ever there was: man desires woman, woman desires man. It was basic, biblical. Rarely were things ever so straightforward. He should be thankful, then, should he not? The trail stretched on before him, pretty and neatly paved.

She could be, he could be, _they_ could be—

 _Lovers_.

There was a future for them, a path through life laid out for just they two, together. Here was a shot at what had been missing in every one of his heretofore licentious forays, that which he had declared himself incapable of feeling. Not quite love but more weighted than fondness. Erik sucked a deep, cleansing breath through his teeth, one of relief at having dodged a bullet - or, rather, Cupid's arrow. The respite was short-lived, he was by no means removed from danger. No, he did not love her... _not yet_. However, it was a matter of _when_ , a question of time, for he could not demur that he was falling for her. Love would be the imminent outcome if he didn't deviate from this destructive, damning course. If he forged onward there was a golden light at the end, a chance at happiness and fulfillment, a _normal_ existence. One, which, was never supposed to have been his according to the lessons his father had so kindly instilled since childhood.

 _Why now?_

After loveless years spent in vice and immorality, why now? The skeptic in him could not produce a rational explanation so the wretched, hopeful part grasped at straws.

Maybe there was a higher power. Maybe the prayers of the lonely, wayward child had at last been heard and this was an olive branch to one whom had been scorned, reviled, and relegated to the shadows by deformity. What was to stop him from seizing an opportunity handed down by the angel Gabriel himself?

Well, Christine was a silly girl who didn't know what she wanted - even _if_ she did, innocence obscured knowledge of what those subjects entailed - and _he_ —

There were an abundance of reasons from which to choose:

His face; his employment; his lack of security; his age; his black past; his detachment from the rest mankind; _his cursed face..._

He need only pick one.

If the first it was an insurmountable obstacle. No woman in her right mind would marry, agree to cherish and obey, a creature more corpse than man, its flesh branded by nightmare; no father in his would condemn a daughter to this gruesome fate; not even the most rapacious mother would sacrifice her child for the sake of a title and noble grandchildren. Christine was an anomaly. A typical woman would have swooned or died of fright upon beholding his face; she had done neither, nor had the atrocity irreparably addled her wits. She had been scared, _oh yes_ \- there had been fear, pleading, and pity - but out of terror came something extraordinary: her wild eyes had calmed, her quaking body relaxed and she had accepted him, smiled at him! This artless young girl, scarcely more than a child, had done what grown men could not.

Were but the sole barrier his repulsive face!

Erik scoffed, never did he imagine himself ever making such a wish.

Yet, the matter of his work there was also. In the twelve years spent as an agent of Richard Monthall's fledgling intelligence service he had grown accustomed to a vagabond life seldom occupying a place for more than a fortnight. Southern Africa, mandated leave, and his current mission were the longest he'd spent on a single directive but in the case of the war and Martinique his assignments had carried him across the entirety of both countries. This nomadic routine was no life for a woman. Although Christine would very probably delight in the prospect of trekking round the globe, such a rare sort was she, it would be no leisurely pilgrimage, no Grand Tour, the environs would be hostile and the threats real. One in his line of work was predisposed to make enemies and attachments were liabilities; a lovely wife would make a lovelier hostage, a weakness waiting to be exploited.

It wasn't as though he could offer her the benefit of a home, a safe haven in which to shelter and thrive whilst he was away. Scotland was unquestionably no longer an option and make no mention of his birthright - though, it was for the taking. Erik loosed a malevolent chuckle at the absurdity of the idea. Ah, stately, imposing Ley Hall nestled in the midst of the serene Chilterns, family seat of the Earls of Chiltern and home to Beelzebub himself. Surely, he wasn't considering... Perhaps that would be his next order of business, to rise from the hereafter and seize what was rightfully his. The hideous Prodigal Son returned to life to embrace his destiny. There would be no sweeter revenge on the bastard who had sired him; it was too much to hope that the shock might stop the Devil's black heart. Come to think, better still that it did not for his father would sneer at Christine, an example of the nouveau riche and offspring of a tradesman no less.

What a spectacular notion: the malformed Earl and his parvenue bride!

Oh, it made for a delectable portrait!

Maitland would have supported the endeavor; his chest tightened with the rehashing of things dead and buried.

But, _no_.

The legality of it would be tedious after having been over a decade 'deceased' - who knew how long it would take to reclaim his inheritance. What could be done in the interim? All he had to his name was a crumbling ruin, its magnificence razed from being by a careless servant's candle. Three months of labor had made a meager impact, the ripple of a pebble cast into a lake, restoring it would take years yet.

By that time—indeed, by the time he had supplanted his father—Erik would be nearing his dotage. They would take turns about the estate he in his pushchair and his nubile wife rolling him along - his faithful nurse, patting his wizened hand and listening to his senile ramblings.

Right, mayhap that was _touch_ overly dramatic.

Eleven years was not a drastic difference, more equal than a great deal of other matches. He was not yet thirty-two, hardly a man removed from his prime. Age was the easiest impediment to overcome.

His dark, gnarled soul, _however..._

Like his marred visage, this hellish malignancy was concrete in its being, one could not escape it; he was a monster through and through. Sweet Christine had brushed it aside, absolved him of the crimes he committed for the Shah, but he wasn't foolish enough to think this lasting. She had nearly denounced him for a trivial lie! What would happen when she discovered he had run men down and killed without remorse, when she learnt how he avenged his brother? How many days of bliss would they have together before his heinous past resurfaced? How long before she saw Death in his shadow, felt the life-quenching power in the fingers that stroked her cheek, saw the blood caking his hands and recoiled in horror? The stain would haunt him forever, to quote _Macbeth_ ,

 _Out, damned spot! Out, I say!_

Never would his hands be clean, the blood would burn as bright and indelible as had the Sacred fire of Vesta. Eventually she would come to see him for what he was, a beast. She would flee and with her take everything—those remaining fragments of goodness, those slivers of heart and snippets of soul—and he'd be left a withered husk, Lord and Master of his scorched shell of a domain. It was poetically fitting.

Not that he needed her in the first place!

Erik Grey was a solitary person. When was the last time he had depended upon someone? Certainly not since his mother had died. Self-reliance had been the order since he could remember. Could he be expected to reconcile that with his life almost half lived? Why change his ways? Base urges could be readily indulged free from the shackles of commitment - that he knew firsthand and _well_ too. As for companionship—if ever he should grow soft in the head and long for such ridiculous frivolity—Andries or the daroga would serve. He assuredly did _not_ need the affections of that uppish nuisance, Miss Christine Daaé.

Besides his face would never allow for it. For all of his deplorable traits Erik wasn't so selfish or cruel to shackle a woman to - as Hugo had so eloquently put it,

 _...un grotesque, un peu plus et un peu moins qu'une bête._

No woman could, nor ever _would_ , have him.

— _Christine might._

What disenchanted folly was this?

Good God, _what_ was he thinking?

He was mad. He was piteous. He was... _a man besotted._ And, quite hopelessly it seemed.

Erik stared at the twisted, moulded metal comprising the portal for several minutes; from somewhere above a droplet of liquid splattered onto his scalp and trickled down his forehead before being absorbed by the fabric of the mask (hopefully water). Apparently his walkabout had led him into the dank bowels of the ship. On the other side of the door, he presumed, was the cargo hold and opening it he found exactly that. It would do just fine. Navigating the cluttered shelves and hodgepodge of piles he settled into a corner upon a heap of rope hidden by some barrels. He stretched out his long frame as much as the space would allow, leaning back against the hull, and closed his eyes.

For the first time in days he welcomed sleep, despite full understanding of _what_ it would bring.

Let the dreams descend; let the visions haunt him; let him quench his thirst after being so long in the desert.

Let them come, he knew they would - it was a formulaic certainty.

Woefully predictable but no less wonderful. _C_ _he sera, sera_ , he was too tired to care.

 **o o o**

In his dreams Christine had not fallen asleep.

In his dreams he had taken her right there on the desk (papers, be damned).

There had been no hesitation, no restraint in the conquest.

 _Careful, girl, you'll crease my papers._

Those thrice-damned words had never passed his lips either.

Lord, had a man ever uttered anything so ridiculous?

Erik had pressed his forehead to hers gasping against her chin when he entered her; they were united on a shared breath. Nothing had ever felt so right as the way they fit together. It was all either of them could do to freeze in awe at the sensation. Christine was the first to break the trance, lips frantically seeking his as she tugged him headlong into a passionate kiss, her nails hooking into his flesh so hard that the skin blanched then bled. She begged him, trembling all over, incoherent words ones of need. Gradually he began to move within her measured at first, content to savor.

Until she had ensnared him with those legs and drawn him deeper. Until she had implored him, scattered pleas about his mouth and neck like breadcrumbs.

Under this nymph's spell he'd been helpless to disobey. Erik could not begrudge her—not this, not anything—and rocked faster, harder, his rhythm dictated by the chorus of moans and sighs. Unlike the sweetness of that initial time upon nature's verdant cloud beneath a billion consecrated tapers of starlight this was heady, dynamic. _This_ was the frenzied push-pull of the ocean, more powerful than either of them. And, _oh God_ , he was so close! He would drown, be dashed to pieces; her nails scored his back in a cross-hatch against the already scarred flesh. The tone of her cries was lyrical, the building crescendo of a wave about to break. It crashed on his name and he lost himself in that raging, roiling sea.

And he enjoyed her every part, revelled in the way she unravelled in his arms, ravished her thoroughly: his Hero, his Pamela, his coy mistress, _his Christine._

They fell apart and came together again.

Within, without; they were everything and nothing all at once.

Marvellous things, dreams. Both his escape and a theatre in which to stage those cravings plaguing him night and day, when she was and wasn't near, they afforded him a semblance of solace. Once shameful and spurned Erik had since come to tolerate them, a marked reversal in opinion from that night she started visiting his imagination. Then, he had been humiliated. Now, they were an anchor to sanity. But, alas, fantasy was not sustainable - that much had been proven tonight in stolen kisses and caresses. At some point the visions of her, those conjured liaisons in which he took her in every way and pleasured her in just as many, would cease to satisfy. He was a doomed man, nothing could prevent the inevitable and this chilled him to his core.

It was Andries who found him the next morning. He was awakened by the sound of a door opening and Paradise was subsequently lost with a creak of hinges.

"My men heard something down here, they thought it might be an evil spirit. They've been skittish ever since Peleé's eruption and you know how superstitious sailors are, none would venture to investigate for fear of the ghost. As for ghosts, I told them I'd only ever met the one and he was rather underwhelming so far as spectres go." he remarked casually leaning upon a shelf.

"Your criticism is noted, perhaps I will take to employing spirit drapery and rattling chains in future."

Captain Lombaard pursed his lips in consideration, "That would likely do it, yes."

"I shall endeavor to rectify my shortcomings at once..." Erik drawled sardonically.

"Is there a reason you're haunting my cargo hold? I thought I had avoided the wrath of _die spook_ by providing him a cabin."

"It was occupied."

"Who by?" This, the very definition of a rhetorical question.

"The girl. She could not sleep and came to me; I gave her the bed." Muscles were cramped and tendons stiff from his mattress of rope; a pang rippled behind his knee as he stretched and stood.

"Ah, _yes_ ," mused Andries in a way that made him uncomfortable, "the girl. She's grown quite attached, hasn't she?"

" _What of it?_ " Erik ground out.

"Nothing, just—" The statement was severed by a single, savage look.

"Just, _what_?"

"Be mindful is all,"

"Of...?" He regretted speaking immediately positive he was assured an irritating answer and unsure _why_ he asked.

"Her feelings."

"So I'm to expect a lecture on dishonesty from you as well? Pray forgive my timely exit, then." With that he started for the door.

"I don't care that you misled her—that matter is between you two—but you must have seen how she looks at you."

Erik halted mid-step his eyes narrowing, "What the devil are you on about?"

"Miss Daaé's feelings towards _you_."

Here he laughed so forcefully his still-tender ribs complained. " _What_ , resentment, derision, blatant dislike...?"

" _Infatuation,_ " the captain corrected, "Why else should she be so upset by such a small lie?"

"Do we speak of the same girl, the same sanctimonious little shrew who lives to carp and castigate?"

"She cares for you and deeply, a fool could see it."

"I suppose that makes me a fool," he mumbled as he quit the space, his mind agitated.

Who was Andries to speak as if she was his familiar? The paltry exchanges between the pair could barely be classified as a conversation yet somehow he was her confidante, the diary to her ingénue? What a novelty! Christine have feelings for _him_? Rubbish! True, she may yearn for him but lust and love were separate entities; this he had learnt from experience - he was virtually an expert on the topic. And, yes, he could believe her being captivated. Abhorrent as his face was he was not without _some_ appeal, Erik knew how to entice a woman to bed using his aura and voice as does the ugly angler fish lure its prey into fearsome jaws. To entice her to _love_ , on the other hand, was an ability well-beyond his ken, of that he was convinced.

Still, Andries' assertion wandered through his thoughts.

 _Christine cares for you and deeply, a fool could see it._

Could this fool dare to hope?

Why on earth would he want to? He did not seek her love.

As for his own words, they were bitterly lamented.

He had not regarded her as that 'sanctimonious little shrew' for some time.

In fact she had grown on him to an exponential degree. Now he saw her kindness, sensitivity, intelligence, and conviction; he saw himself as undeserving of her deference.

He was _not_ worthy.

 _—yet_ , as fools will, he still ventured to hope.

 **o o o**

What a strange dream!

 _...what a scandalous dream!_

Strange and scandalous and ... _thrilling._

Thrilling in that it wasn't a nightmare, thrilling in _another_ sense too - but she tried not to dwell on that which brought a fierce blush to her cheeks. Modesty balked before being overruled by logic: what did it matter if she acted wanton within the privacy of her own head? There was no one to judge or chastise her behavior in this personal realm, save herself. How refreshing it had been to challenge the tension, to act on her wishes and cast off timidity!

In dreams she had been bold. In dreams she had played the role of seducer _not_ seduced.

In dreams she had kissed him.

Christine had yearned to do so for days, ever since he had yanked her into the brush and pinned her to that tree. From then on it hovered at the fringes of her consciousness: how it would feel; how he would react; what he would taste of... Not even the icy waters of Meg's tale could douse her burning curiosity. Countless times she envisaged doing it, always she was hindered by nerves. Instead she resorted to praying - for courage, for him to do what she could not.

Then the river had swelled; she had been saved; and he had caught her when she stumbled _and kissed her._

 _And_ , it could not have been further from the horror Meg described.

 _And_ , thereafter she had coveted the drug that was his kiss as would an addict.

Only in last night's dream did she finally take the initiative; Erik had received her eagerly.

His tongue joyously welcomed her; his arms willingly embraced her; his hands explored heretofore unknown regions of her body and claimed them in his name.

 _Holy Father, his hands!_

On her breast, on her hips, on her thigh...

She could still feel his touch searing her flesh, could still feel _that_ part of him pressed against her.

 _Oh_ , and she knew full well where they were headed. And she knew it was sinful and wrong. She knew she should resist yet she _wanted_ him, more than anything else in memory.

But then it had ended, faded into nothingness forthwith, and Christine was left floating in the void.

Odd that it should stop so abruptly, that his lips and hands should halt in their divine crusades and not continue further. Was this the myopia of the virgin mind? Though it made sense in a way somehow she didn't think her maidenhood was completely to blame. So, _what_ then?

And, Christine was forced to grapple with a prospect so terrifying it eluded comprehension:

—that it had _not_ been a dream after all.

No, that was impossible. She would never have done something so brazen.

Not, _unless..._

The lingering tang of bitterness that often succeeded imbibing told a different story. Thinking on it now, there _had_ been a bottle of wine. Although this proved aught in of itself. Supposing the aforementioned beverage had existed, was it not reasonable to deduce that it was the catalyst for her lewd imaginings? Yes, that made sense. She had quaffed it as a soporific, fallen asleep alone, and the uninhibited nature of the alcohol had brought forth her deepest longings. It was _as_ plausible an explanation as her dream being not fantasy but reality. _Moreover_ — _  
_

And, without preamble she was jolted from further reflection by the jostling of her shoulder and the pull of a potent voice.

"Time to rise, it's nearly noon and we reach Tortola today." When she didn't stir he persisted, "Come, lazybones, out of bed."

 _Lazybones_?

Christine groaned and buried her face in the covers. Why was it that whenever she was in the midst of a good dream she was awakened by him? Infuriating man! Did he live to torment her? Furthermore, what was he even doing in her quarters? He tried to rouse her again and she tossed both a pillow and dismissal at him, grumbling like the giants and trolls papa used to voice in his dark Northern stories. Unfortunately, like those stubborn beasts Erik would not relent in his purpose.

"Dispense with this childish behavior at once or so help me God, I swear I _will_ drag you out of that damn bed!"

"Oh, shoo, would you?! Just leave me be and get out of my room, Erik!"

"Would that I could," came the acerbic retort, "Alas, you're not in _your_ cabin, idiot girl!"

 _What the devil—_ Not in her cabin? Then, _where_...? He was trifling with her, she decided. Even so, piqued interest caused her to withdraw from her cocoon and confirm for herself. When she did hazard a peek Christine scrambled from the bed as fast as she could. _His_ bed. Then, he hadn't been jesting. Oh Lord, _that_ meant— No, surely not. Mulling it over she _did_ dimly recall coming to apologize last night and being frightfully tired. She must have fallen asleep afterwards, her location giving rise to those salacious visions. Besides, if anything had passed between them he would undoubtedly be in bed with her. Nothing had happened, she was sure of it now - _o_ _nly_ , the wine prevented her from confirming it altogether.

Meanwhile she stood there in _his_ quarters, wearing _his_ shirt and looking as guilty as Eve.

Oh, it was going to be a _long_ afternoon.

"That's better," Erik rasped, his voice tight. He was staring at her queerly, as if battling to look away. His eyes flashed and his jaw clenched; at his side his right hand flexed. She sensed he was locked in some sort of inner struggle. "Here," he eventually muttered, grabbing his dressing robe, "cover yourself and return to your cabin to pack." Christine accepted the proffered garment and slipped it on, and, perceiving it unwise to loiter, did as bidden and left.

* * *

 **Poor, sweet Christine is deep in denial, bless her heart - at least she was spared the hangover she should have gotten. I wonder what will happen _if_ she finds out it wasn't a dream.**

 **A/N: Right, remember that 'dilapidated Jacobean country house' Erik was restoring whilst on leave from chapter 2?**

 **So, I'm sure you guys have heard of someone who's missing for many years being declared 'dead _in absentia_ '. If no evidence of their being alive can be produced after a period of time they are presumed deceased. This is typically after 7 years have passed (in common law) but depending on the case can be a shorter duration, e.g. say there's a plane crash or shipwreck and no body is found, however, the signs all point to an unlikely chance of survival, they are generally declared dead sooner rather than later. Erik disappeared en route to school almost 19 years prior to the events of this story. It's safe to assume that he is dead in the eyes of his family excepting his late brother.**

 ***The Sacred fire of Vesta was an eternal flame in Ancient Rome maintained by the Vestal Virgins; it burned in Vesta's temple (the goddess of hearth, family, and home) for over 200 years until being extinguished in 394 CE by Christian Emperor, Theodosius the Great.**

 ***The line from Hugo roughly means: ...a creature grotesque, a little more and a little less than a beast. It is from the translated version of _The Man Who Laughs_ , of course. Expect even more references in future since the two stories mesh so well. :)**

 ***Hero refers to Aphrodite's priestess, Hero, from the tale of Hero and Leander - remember that because it will come up later in the story. Pamela is the character from Samuel Richardson's eponymous novel, _Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded_. Essentially it's about a young girl who goes to work as a maid for Lady B; upon the latter's death her son, Mr B, grows infatuated with Pamela and resorts to pretty much every trick under the sun to bed her. When he goes too far and causes Pamela to have a breakdown he repents and confesses his love; Pamela realizes she loves him as well they later marry. His coy mistress is a reference to Andrew Marvell's poem, "To His Coy Mistress" (a personal favorite) the gist of which is essentially a dude saying to a girl he desires, 'Hey, you won't be young forever and the next step is death so what's the point in holding out? Let's just get to boning.' But, naturally, Marvell says it a tad more eloquently.**

 ***A note on _Pamela_ : the novel has been criticized for its glorification of abuse however that's not the parallel I wanted to draw. When Erik makes the comparison he is putting both Christine and himself in the roles of Pamela and Mr B respectively but because he sees her as a paragon of innocence like Pamela. Right now he's wrestling with some guilt over desiring her and wanting to corrupt her virtue, ergo he believes himself to be a cad like Mr B. Don't worry he has no plans to cross-dress, sneak into her bed and try to seduce her (yeah, that actually happens in the book), although that might make for a comical visual.**

 ***The bit about spirit drapery has a kind of interesting origin. Back in the days of Shakespeare ghosts were sometimes represented on stage in armor because it was a spooky blast from the past, I guess? I don't know. Anyways, by the time the 1800s rolled around people were mocking these armored ghosts rather than being scared; adding to that they presented a logistical nightmare to move about. That's when someone came up with the idea to throw on some old sheets instead and thus we have spirit drapery.**


	24. For what is wedlock forced but a hell

**A/N: And, now, I present the continuation of the previous chapter...**

 **Erring on the rating here but nothing _too_ lewd. Expect angst and some fluff - well, an approximation thereof - ahead; classical literature lovers will enjoy it. ;)  
**

 **Thank you for the reviews, you guys surpassed yourselves! Not A Ghost3 and ehardy9381, here's another update and thank you both kindly.**

 **And, well done, Gloriana Femina for being the first to guess that Maitland is indeed the name of Erik's late brother - and, (sort of) guessing what lies ahead in this chapter. Ah, yes, sloppy drunk Christine is great but what of sloppy drunk Erik? I have a little plan for that in future, haha. On the note of _Pamela_ , I get the distinct impression that were Erik to pop out of a closet and try to kiss Christine she would probably punch him; I also think she'd eschew the letters and confront him face-to-face. Hmm, that _is_ a good idea, locking them in a room to work it out, let's see how that goes.  
**

* * *

 **10 May - Arrival in Road Town, Tortola**

Erik watched her closely as she padded down the corridor. Thank Providence she had complied for once, and _promptly_. For were she to dally in that pathetic excuse for sleepwear, that shirt once belonging to him, all reasoning might have snapped - especially in his present condition, his dream still fresh in mind. She could have no idea how close he'd been to granting her wish to remain abed and joining her beneath the blankets. He was grateful they were disembarking today because it meant an endless supply of monotonous tasks, perfect fodder for distraction. This would be the remission he dearly needed.

Unluckily for him his subconscious had alternative plans.

Hours marched by and his docket waned but regardless of what he did the images refused to abate; they were a fever, a disease warring to ravage him. Like he who had tasted the forbidden fruit his thoughts were wholly consumed by that which was proscribed. _What would_ she _taste of?_ he pondered. If he had sank onto his knees before her last night, if he had slid the fabric up her thighs following the trail his kisses blazed, _if_ he had set his lips to that hidden part of her...

Would she have yelled? Would she have fought? Would she have been afraid? Would she have melted for him?

He would have made her come undone or died trying, his little bird would have sung for him and him alone. God, what an intoxicating concept! Erik slid back into reverie, into the bliss of Christine's whimpers and sighs. How was he to face her like this? How was he to contain himself when he could not contain his thoughts? Fate seemingly wanted an answer as well because at that same moment the door opened and in _she_ walked. She was buoyant and easy, Persephone unaware of the danger she courted; Hades watched her hungrily from the shadows, plotting.

"Are you busy?"

"Yes, but you've clearly no objection to intruding."

"I can leave if you'd prefer," Christine rejoined, that whiny edge to her voice.

"What's the sense in that? You've already interrupted."

"The door wasn't locked."

"Does that preclude you from knocking?"

"The door was _unlocked_ ," she reiterated pointedly, "Is that your desire, that I go back and knock?"

 _No, my_ desire _is to have you beneath me, within my hands, to silence you with my lips and tongue, to taste you, to make you scream my name_ —

"What a ridiculous thing to ask! As I have said, you're currently here. What difference will it make if you seek permission now?"

"It might silence you, for one; or, perhaps, make you the least bit hospitable."

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, _then_?" Erik ground out in a pantomime of politeness.

"I was packing what few things of mine survived the river and had an idea."

" _God help us all..._ "

Christine speared him with a virulent glare and resumed, "Since those after me believe they're hunting for _Christopher_ and as I've nearly no clothes remaining, I thought it might be best to retire my disguise and come ashore as Christine." He tried to stem the tide of indecent pictures arising from the phrase: _no clothes_.

"That is likely the wisest course, yes."

She worried her lip, evidently taken aback, "You had the _same_ notion?"

"Naturally. It's the most sensible course and you're an astute girl, that the scheme should have crossed your mind is unsurprising."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Is there a special occasion of which I'm ignorant?"

"What?"

"It must be to earn such a compliment from you." He scowled.

"Haven't you _something_ to do?"

"Not aside from bothering you; I'm already packed." Christine grinned, boldly plucking an apple from his desk and taking a large bite.

" _Charming,_ " he said listening to her chew with a curl of lip, "what a small wonder your father hasn't married you off yet."

"Mm, yes. It looks like we both shall be enduring bachelors." Her comment touched a nerve; his glower intensified.

"If that is _all_ , young Daaé, I am quite preoccupied."

"No, there's actually another matter, a rather significant one..."

"Which is...? Out with it, girl, I haven't all day for games!"

"I didn't bring nearly enough money for a new wardrobe and dress shops can be so expensive. Normally I'd write to papa but that's not an option. Oh, what am I to do? I'll have to walk around in rags!" She was on the verge of crying. From her genuine distress he could tell this was not one of those ploys the fairer sex enacted to bilk saps out of ribbons and frocks - not that he would have denied her if it was - and felt his heart soften.

"I will take care of it, you needn't worry." As if to reassure her Erik made a point of adding to his list:

 ** _Dresses for Christine_**

"There." He eyed the steady scrawl of his hand, observing the paper lap up the ink. When he glanced back it had metamorphosed.

 ** _Christine undressed_**

And, down plunged his mind once more, down to that most scurrilous pit of hell.

 _Oh_ , it was to be a long day.

"There _is_ one last thing," Erik barely curtailed the impulse to throw his pen on the floor and stamp on it.

"And it is?"

"It concerns our plans upon reaching Tortola. I assume we'll be travelling under aliases but what will _we_ be?" After a soundless interlude wherein he made no effort to respond she became impatient, " _Well?_ "

"Speak plainly and maybe you will get an answer." was his aggravating reply.

"What will we be travelling _as_ , id est what relationship will we claim?" Christine clarified through grit teeth.

"I've not spared it much thought, more important things have demanded my concentration today." It was an outright lie. Erik had given it ample thought. There was only _one_ rational connection they could allege but he dare not be the first to mention it. So much for his inability to deceive her... but, this, he told himself, was different. If he made the suggestion she would be repulsed and label him a debauchee or something worse; truth be told, deep-down he feared rejection or laughter yet a proud man such as he would never suffer make the admission. No, it could not be _his_ brainchild. She must reach the conclusion herself and he wasn't above induction to push her in the right direction. "What of yourself? Have _you_ any ideas, young Daaé?"

" _Well_ —" His designs appeared to have done the trick; he held his breath, "Our difference in age is too insignificant for you to pass as my father or uncle nor do we look alike enough to be siblings, and to say we're cousins might be too far-fetched. The easiest solution would be to ... _pretend we are husband and wife._ "

He suppressed the smile threatening at the corners of his mouth and feigned nonchalance, "Yes, that seems logical."

"I've no objections to it," Christine announced, standing a smidgen straighter; she looked every inch a sacrificial lamb but he didn't voice that. "I suppose that means I'm to be Mrs Grey, then?"

Erik gave a small, choking cough, " _What_?! _I—_ I think it best if neither of us uses our real surname."

"No, of course not... You're correct, that _would_ be silly," she agreed quietly, "What are we to call ourselves then?"

"I leave the choice up to your discretion. That is, I _can_ trust you not to make too preposterous a selection, yes?"

"Preposterous? Like, Darcy _or—_ "

" _Precisely_ like Darcy."

"Oh, you take the joy out of everything, Fitzwilliam!" Christine huffed teasingly.

"Fitzwilliam? _That_ was his given name?"

"Yes!"

" _Good God..._ " he murmured shaking his head, his lips curled into a moue of disgust.

"What, have you never read _Pride and Prejudice_?" Erik looked at her askance.

"Do I exude the impression that I readily indulge in the works of Jane Austen?" She rolled her eyes.

"How could I have forgotten to whom I speak? Why, you are an entity ripped straight from the pages of Gothic fiction! Naturally, a more sinister suggestion is required! How does Melmoth sound?"

"Promising, but _only_ if I could tempt you into damnation."

"I would not lose my soul to gain that world." They shared a grin at the literary in-joke. _This_ was the rapport for which Christine had been pining and she was unwilling to let their discourse end; she carried on presenting whatever dark characters she could drudge up if just to keep him talking.

"Lord Ruthven, then?"

" _Which_ Lord Ruthven?"

"Either,"

"If Lamb's Ruthven, I hope you will spare me the indignity of a portrayal by a bitter, jilted mistress and if Polidori's Ruthven, I'd think you more hesitant as Lady Ruthven did not meet with a favorable end."

"Both reasonable arguments. What of Athlin?"

"I am unfamiliar, I'm afraid; do enlighten me."

"From the title of Ann Radcliffe's, _The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne_?"

"Ah, so which of Radcliffe's infamous swooning maidens would that make you?" She stared daggers at him.

"You're right, it won't do. However, I believe I've found the best fit at long-last."

"Go on,"

"Then again, d'Urberville is probably too manifest..."

"So are we to be the Clares?"

"You're no Angel," Erik smirked at her double entendre; she puffed up with the attention - at last things between them done right!

"No, indeed, little princess."

"Fortunately there is another option available to us as Alec's father, Simon Stoke, only adopted the surname d'Urberville."

He bobbed his head in approval, eyes gleaming with amused pride, "Then the Stokes we shall be; I will bring about your ruin and you shall murder me in my bed, a truly _inspirational_ marriage."

 **o o o**

With evening came the familiar view of land, of sailboats and steamers. Christine gripped the ship's railing heartily drinking in anything and everything around her - sounds, smells, the faint flicker of lights in the distance. It was not so dark tonight as it had been last night or the one before. Though the black shroud of mourning still cloaked the cosmos it didn't douse that illumination which was engineered by man; they were on the fringes of Peleé's caliginous canopy, almost removed from La Montagne's reach. Christine took it as a good omen of the voyage to come.

Soon they would truly be free of Death's clutches and under blue skies again.

The hour was finally upon them, the beginning of the third leg of their journey. Rather than the fearful confusion of the primary or hesitance of the second she only registered a wearied numbness. She had spanned half a lifetime in a mere two days, or so it seemed. When one ruminated over everything that had happened it felt as though she'd lived ten lives. It had taken its toll.

Farewells were uncomplicated. Christine swallowed her envy and waited as Erik and Captain Lombaard said their good-byes (in Afrikaans, of course) before coming forward to say her own; she bid him a fond adieu imploring him to visit England where her father would gladly offer him a position in his company, he promised to think on it and provided her an address on Sint Maarten at which he could be reached.

Briefly before stepping off _Cornelia Anne_ she wondered what the future held. What was next for them? What new sights and situations would find them? These musings were - quite literally - left in the dust as she was pulled forward and into the unknown, towards the lights, towards town. She got the queerest impression of being some half-tamed wild thing dragged against its will back to human habitation; the comparison made her giggle like a madwoman. Weeks ago, prior to meeting him, would she have felt the same as she did at present? Would Christine Daaé have eagerly fled back into nature's lush bosom and nestled there, content to throw off society's yoke and live free? No; it was an unequivocal no. Two weeks with him had altered her, maybe irrevocably. But, _had they truly_? Had she been reshaped or was it that his company had awoken a primitive part of her that had _always_ been there?

She would have to revisit the issue later... Right now she needed to concentrate on walking lest her arm be torn off and she left behind; it was doubtful he'd even notice.

Erik's mood had rapidly deteriorated after disembarking and declined with every step, annoyance oozing from every pore. Despite being unable to say with certitude, and not witless enough to investigate, Christine surmised their return to civilization was the root cause. Although it was nighttime the quaint harbor town wasn't deserted, people milled about hither and thither drinking, dawdling, and strolling - fewer in number than the daytime masses yet still too many for his apparent liking.

Crowds ostensibly made him ill-at-ease. Erik's personality could not remotely be categorized as mild or amiable, the misfortune of his face was inconsequential, he was reclusive by nature. It was, then, a dismal irony that one who loathed the limelight should be so conspicuous. Every part of him compelled focus both unconscious and deliberate his height, bearing, and aspect importuning it. This was further enhanced ( _or_ _worsened,_ depending on whom was surveyed) by his commanding presence. The mask was just a triviality, he would have stood out regardless, but she didn't think he minced words in differentiation.

Not surprisingly he garnered stares as they made their way along the street, which, only served to sour his disposition more. He was seething by the time they came upon the inn, the pressure engulfing her arm proof of what went unvoiced. She wished she could offer reassurance but knew such an action would be folly, he was too proud to be comforted. Besides, she'd risk consolation being mistaken for pity and, as it had been established, Erik and pity were mortal enemies. Perchance he'd relax once he was sequestered in the privacy of a room and away from curious eyes.

The room.

Damn, she had let _that_ matter slip from mind.

What would their sleeping arrangements be?

Christine was all of a sudden overcome with anxiety, a squirming fretfulness in her stomach knotting itself as they neared their destination. So far as the rest of the world was concerned she and Erik were husband and wife. No one would spare a second thought to their sharing a room or - she gulped - _a bed_. Her nerves wriggled harder to the percussion of her hammering heartbeat, bordering on hysteria.

And, if they occupied one room or bed, what _of_ it?

They had without doubt been in more compromising situations than merely sleeping within the same four walls, sensibility interceded. The tent in which they had spent the better part of a fortnight was not much larger than a mattress for two, if at all. And, had it not been her—she who was presently so scandalized—who had not-so-secretly hoped Erik would join her in bed the night before last but couldn't summon the courage to ask? Oh, she knew it was silly and ridiculous! However, rejoining humanity brought back those societal notions of modesty that had been drubbed into her from childhood. But, then again, when had she ever cared about the antiquated and puritanical constraints imposed upon her sex? Not that there was anything for it if she had, the time for protest had elapsed and she'd just have to accept wherever fate landed her.

"Wait here," The order came clipped and testy. Truthfully, she was more shocked by the fact that he had spoken than she was at being left outside. Nevertheless, Christine did as instructed and remained by the door.

It was all Erik could do to maintain an air of composure when he wanted to strangle the life out of someone, watch their eyes bulge and the blue pallor of death creep in. _Always  
_ goddamn stares wherever he went! No amount of bygone years made them tolerable and upon arriving at the inn his temper had grown so foul that it was like to spawn a hurricane were he to will it so. He wanted nothing more than to sequester himself five levels below the earth and away from humankind. Well, no, that wasn't strictly accurate, he wanted _one_ thing with greater intensity - and the chances of the latter were just as feasible as the former happening.

He still needed to deal with the innkeeper. Damnation! Were there ever a more unpleasant task he couldn't think of it. She stood behind a desk with duster in hand, a portly old maid. While the gawking wasn't dictated by class - his hideousness was the great equalizer - the upper echelons were (generally) mannerly about it. Or maybe _subtle_ was a better word. Doubtlessly they too whispered and gossiped but had the graciousness to wait until he was out of sight and earshot; the common rabble lacked this conscientious grace, they gaped and shouted and pointed as they pleased. But, could they be blamed when monsters had no more feelings than animals?

Trying to conceal his scowl he approached, "Have you any rooms?"

The innkeeper turned at his voice, a cordial smile upon her wrinkled face; her eyes swept over him pausing on the mask but her expression didn't waver. She was a stalwart old cow, he'd give her that. "Yes, sir; business has been slow of late. Just the one?"

" _Two,_ " he amended, "I have a travelling companion; adjoining if possible."

"We have two across from one another, each with its own bath; the rest share a common bathroom."

"The former will do fine."

"How many nights, sir?"

"Tonight and the night next, perhaps longer, depending upon whether I can find suitable travel accommodations."

"That shouldn't pose a problem, tramp steamers come and go every week. Bound for England, yes?" Erik gave a stiff nod, not wanting to converse but concurrently loath to upset the unexpected civility. "Glad the war's nearly ended? Of course, I knew you was a soldier from the moment you walked in, you've the bearing of an officer. Fighting in Africa, is that how _you..._ " She trailed off before she could finish the thought, presumably owing to the way the atmosphere shifted and darkened. "Is that your companion, there in the coat by the door?"

"My ... _wife_ ," The contrived title rolled off his tongue more smoothly than anticipated, "the light aggravates her migraine."

"Newly married?"

" _Yes_ , we are on honeymoon."

"Warmest wishes upon you both! Though, it's not often a new husband comes in here and lets separate rooms." She gave a chuckle. He supplied what he hoped was a passive shrug and tried to ignore the prickle of rising temper at his nape.

"Two years in Southern Africa have coarsened my manners, I'm afraid. Our journey has been exhausting and I snore something dreadful; I'd feel horrid were she to lose more sleep on my behalf."

A hint of suspicion clouded the dark, matronly eyes. And, to make matters catastrophic, Christine chose that instant to flout his earlier directive.

"What's all this about, dear? Have they no more rooms?"

"No, ma'am, we've plenty to spare. You've a noble husband, letting you a room for your comfort; my Bernie snores so loud I sometimes wish I had a separate house!" Christine laughed merrily alongside the old biddy.

"My husband is ever so considerate but two rooms will not be necessary, we shall require just the one. Won't we, dearest?"

"But what of my _snoring_ , will it not worsen your headache? You've had so little rest on this trip and I worry for your health, _my dove_."

"Oh, such an agreeable, caring man there's never been; the Lord has placed me in such strong, loving hands! I praise Him every day for my fortune, you know. Don't fret, the fresh air has rejuvenated me, I'm all but recovered. He fears for my condition after that terrible tragedy on Martinique," she explained to her enraptured audience, "We had to hire a fishing vessel to transport us, narrowly escaped with our lives; my trunks were lost in the chaos, I've been forced to wear my husband's overcoat as mine is gone." Although he was reluctant to admit it Christine proved to be a decent charlatan, which, given her previous sermon on lying was a humorous coincidence. Still, this didn't nullify the plain and simple fact that she'd defied him; there was a definite talk in order.

"Yes, news reached us yesterday, such a horrible thing! May God rest all those poor souls. I'll send up a hot meal and the card of a dressmaker in town, dearie. What name will this be under?"

"Stoke," Erik replied curtly, "Captain and Mrs Stoke. My belongings are being brought up from the docks, have them delivered to our room if you please."

"Of course, Captain Stoke."

"Doesn't a proper supper sound lovely, my dear?" Christine said to him with a saccharine grin, obviously satisfied with herself.

Well, _that_ was to change shortly...

"Yes, _darling_ , quite."

To the observer this was simply an endearment from an affectionate husband to his wife but Christine recognized it for what it really was: a guarantee of the scolding to come. This was not the last she'd hear of it. There was a squall on the horizon, a brewing fight; the portentous winds whipped faster with each stair ascended. It was all she could do to take a deep, bracing breath.

She was not to be disappointed. No sooner had the door closed than he laid ahold of her forearm and spun her to face him.

"What in the _hell_ were you thinking?!" he hissed.

"What was _I_ —" she spat incredulously, "Well, I daresay at least one of us _was_ thinking! Or, did you miss the strange look she gave you when you requested two rooms? Separate rooms, _imagine_! You might as well have said we were strangers, after all what kind of 'new _husband_ ' would do something so absurd?" The emphasis she placed upon that word rankled.

"The kind who is in a _fictitious_ union; the kind who aims to preserve the virtue you'd carelessly injure! Much as _you_ _'d_ like to pretend otherwise, young Daaé, we are _not_ married."

"I _know_ and I've thanked God for that more times than I can count since this afternoon! _You_ , Erik Grey, are the last man on this earth whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry!"

" _Good_ _,_ " Erik sneered wickedly, "Although, your appropriation of Eliza Bennet's declaration does somewhat diminish the impact of your words. Regardless, _you_ could not offer yourself in _any_ way that would tempt me to take you as my wife." He spoke the last on a condescending smirk.

"What?! I thought you said you had never read Austen!"

"Everyone the whole world over knows that damn exchange by rote! _What_ , did you believe yourself clever?"

" _OH!_ " she puffed, "Don't think for a moment I'd accept your hand were you even _capable_ of behaving in a gentlemanlike manner!" Christine jabbed a finger into his chest, "Furthermore, let's not pretend you care one jot for my virtue! You forgot it quickly enough all those times you acted like a scoundrel: when you spied upon me; when _you—_ "

"And _you_ had no qualms flinging yourself at me like a whore!" Erik was not one prone to mistakes, doubly so with regards to making them twice; he easily intercepted the slap intended for his cheek. She bristled and he blazed smugly, alight with vindication at having thwarted her.

" _HOW—_ HOW DARE YOU, YOU LIAR, YOU CAD?! I have never _once_ flung myself at you!"

Christine was furious, her face bearing a striking resemblance to a tomato. As it had done countless times before anger made her shortsighted, blind to whom she dealt with. While he was not burdened by repeating blunders she fell into the same trap again and again. Rage inspired rashness, which, in turn frequently landed her in trouble. It wasn't owing to any quantifiable deficiency but instead that she was hot-headed—a trait exacerbated to its fullest extent by him—and hadn't yet learnt how to rationalize through the fog of temper. This rendered her woefully ill-equipped for sparring with Erik and put her in a precarious position.

" _No?_ " His voice took a divergent twist.

Suddenly she recollected a warning from another time, one about playing with fire - the exact words escaped her but it seemed germane at present, an instinctual caution of sorts. She looked up to see the transition had not limited itself to his tone. His eyes were starved and in his muscles there was a furled tension, like a tiger about to pounce upon an unwary deer. When she knew regret it was too little, too late.

"What do you call seeking me out past midnight clad in that piteous scrap of clothing, flaunting yourself? Tell me, was your behavior last night that of a virtuous girl, little princess?"

" _Wh_ —What are you talking about?"

"Has shame so thoroughly erased your memory? Or was it the wine?"

The lack of answer honed his leer to a razor's edge. Her realization that she'd pushed him too far came delayed (as usual). Christine was distantly aware of herself walking backwards and him advancing. Theirs was a high-stakes game of cat-and-mouse. And, for the impetuous rodent, the outcome did not look favorable; the pompous, gloating feline was sure to have his meal tonight.

"Was it not _you_ who came to my cabin in the dead of night?" This susurration assaulted her ears at tremendous volume, booming and resounding; her slow retreat continued.

"Was it not _you_ who asserted yourself, demanding my attention, practically falling into my lap?" She swallowed thickly as she met with a solid barrier. _Caught._ Christine's hands curled over the edge of the impeding desk, her nails leaving crescent-shaped wounds in the wood; he leaned over her in triumph.

 _Trapped_ , as she had been in her dream.

"Was it not _you_ who kissed me?" Erik's face was close to hers. The heat of his body was its own tangible wall crushing inwards; his intent was obvious. She closed her eyes to bring equilibrium to a spinning head, unable to watch the victorious cat go in for the kill.

Then it _hadn't_ been a dream.

 _That meant—_

Erik was right.

He didn't give a damn about her honor but neither did she, he had called her out. Christine, wanton as a jade, awaited another breach of it, heedless that this could well be _that_ finale: the point of no return, of certain ruin.

"Is it not _you_ who longs as I do, who wants this every bit as badly?"

His breath was warm and heady and - Lord, she could taste him already; she inhaled, holding it so that she might lose herself in the opiate rush. Her mind screamed an echoing confession of, _yes_. All she knew was desire and _him_. And, his lips were slowly descending upon hers and stopped just short of contact - and this was excruciating, why hadn't he kissed her yet? She needed him desperately! Oh, what cruel torture this was. Then, just when she thought she might go mad the first divine brush of skin on skin and he was plainly taunting her but two could play at that game... and she traced his bottom lip with her tongue, relishing in the snap of his careful control; his growl was thunder; his kiss a bolt of lightning she felt surging down to her toes.

Christine surrendered to the churning storm.

One knock on the door was all it took to extinguish the tempest.

 _Your supper, Captain Stoke, sir.  
_

He swore on an exhale, no fewer than four languages.

The next instant Erik had disappeared with the slam of the bathroom door; the clack of a lock, rush of running water, and she was left to eat alone. Floating in a place of shock, cheeks still flaming, she pulled at the bits of pork and potatoes on her plate and began to eat dazedly.

It promised to be either a very long or very lonely night, already she could feel the headache coming on.

* * *

 **Whoops.**

 **Well, at least things are about to get interesting fast. Methinks these two have nooo idea what they've just signed up for posing as a married couple. They'll certainly have their work cut out for them - Erik will need to stop being such an asshole and Christine will need to stop constantly challenging him. Oh, it will be a treat to watch. Think they can pull it off?  
**

 **In all seriousness this will mark a shift in the dynamic between them (for the next few chapters anyway). Yes, it will start out as disingenuous but as things progress ... who knows, maybe they'll be able to admit their feelings to one another - because we all know that's not happening without a big push.**

 **A/N: I pulled out all the stops on the literary references here. What can I say, I just love their scholarly banter!**

 ***Melmoth is the mysterious character from Charles Maturin's Gothic novel _Melmoth the Wanderer_. It's about this dude, John Melmoth, who discovers a portrait of a man called Melmoth while at his uncle's funeral; it's dated over a century earlier and he learns the legend of this guy, Stanton's quest to find Melmoth. Naturally John decides to track down this Stanton, hijinks ensue, and the reader learns bits and pieces of Melmoth's story from others who have known him. Ultimately it's revealed that Melmoth made a deal with the Devil for a longer life (150 years) and has been wandering the world trying to find someone who will take over the deal for him; he doesn't succeed. At the end of the tale he appears to John and says, 'I have traversed the world in the search, and no one to gain that world, would lose his own soul.' Christine's reply is a play on that famous quote.**

 ***Ruthven alludes both to the villain Lord Ruthven in Lady Caroline Lamb's Gothic novel, _Glenarvon_ , and the vampire from John Polidori's short story, "The Vampyre"; the name was mentioned in chapter 13 during that conversation on Byronic heroes. Interestingly, Lord Ruthven was based off of Lord Byron who was Lamb's lover; Polidori was Byron's doctor. Lady Caroline Lamb? Well, for those of you who are fans of the period drama, _Victoria_ , she was Lord Melbourne's wife. Yeah, _really_. Small world. Anyhoo _Glenarvon_ depicts Byron in the most unflattering light possible. In "The Vampyre" Lord Ruthven marries the sister of the main character, Aubrey, and at the end of the story she's found dead, drained of blood and Ruthven has vanished. Hence, Erik's remarks on the subject.**

 ***Ann Radcliffe's _The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne. A Highland Story_ , is about two rival Scottish clans by the same names. The protagonist, Osbert - with the aid of highlander, Alleyn - fights to overthrow the evil baron, Malcolm, who murdered his father. Malcolm seized the barony upon his elder brother's death, holding his sister-in-law and niece prisoner and shipping off his nephew to be raised by peasants, ignorant of his true identity. Osbert and Alleyn are caught and imprisoned, though the latter escapes. Malcolm, meanwhile, falls for Osbert's sister, Mary, and attempts to kidnap her; she's rescued by Alleyn, for whom she falls but cannot marry because of his low birth. Malcolm informs the Countess Mathilda (Osbert's mom) that he'll only release Osbert _if_ he is wed to her daughter, Mary. Eventually Osbert manages to escape, Malcolm is killed in the skirmish, and it's revealed that Alleyn is actually the baron's missing son. Everybody lives happily ever after. Mary, like Radcliffe's female characters, is very delicate and subject to fainting spells - the archetypal damsel in distress. Of course, we know how much Christine loathes that comparison (triply so when it's made by Erik).**

 ***A lot of you guys probably remember _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_ from English class. Yeah, definitely _not_ the healthiest relationship (or at all), that of Alec d'Urberville and Tess; Stoke _was_ the family's original name, changed when they moved south to sound more cultivated. I know I probably should have chosen something better but when I thought of the Angel Clare pun I just _had_ to. Christine suggested it jokingly and it happened to appeal to Erik's dark sense of humor. Although clearly the implication isn't lost on him as he references Alec's taking advantage of Tess (some say rape) and then end of their story arc; Tess becomes Alec's mistress after her husband (Angel Clare) abandons her for having not been a virgin and stabs him to death when Angel returns. He thinks it amusing now but he may come to regret his choice.**

 ***I know, I know the _Pride and Prejudice_ argument was cheesy but it just fit so well and helped magnify the tension! ;)**


	25. Some keep the Sabbath going to Church

**A/N: Ah, what a pain this chapter was to write - which, is why it took so long to publish. Apologies for that. It's a dense one _but_ I think the last half might make that worthwhile. I made a stupid error in making them arrive on Tortola on a Saturday night so I had to find a way around that, hopefully it is somewhat believable. **

**Also, not much heat in this chapter but there is a bit of a fluffy ending. And, speaking of heat... just wait until the chapter after next.**

 **Many thanks to all my wonderful reviewers! Keep them coming, please!**

 **Also, Child of Dreams, what's with you wanting Christine to be in constant danger? I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the threat level will be low for a while, at least until they arrive back in England - after that who knows... ;)**

 **Now, without further delay...**

* * *

 **11 May - Day 14**

Christine awoke to an empty room, which, following last night's - argument? lapse of inhibition? - came as no surprise. The note awaiting her on the table alongside a plate of breakfast, however, was a first.

It was touching.

Ever since her secret had been laid bare Erik had made a habit of disappearing. Whenever an awkward situation reared its head or a charged moment passed between them his subsequent flight was all-but assured, the prior evening had qualified as both. Where he went, what refuge or distraction he sought, was a mystery of the highest order - she contemplated it but dared not inquire.

He would not have told her regardless.

In a bizarre twist he hadn't left the room, not technically, choosing to instead sequester himself in the bathroom. When the moody prince did _at last_ emerge from his tiled sanctuary it was half-past eleven, in silent high dudgeon he took to the sofa Hugo in hand. Christine had seized her opportunity for a bath then, lest he choose to hole himself up for another inordinate stretch, and retired directly afterwards. Not a word was exchanged for the remainder of the night; he never came to bed.

—despite her shamelessly (or shamefully, depending) wishing he had.

Pensively nibbling on a piece of toast she studied the missive he left behind, losing herself in the neat, slanting script - so artful it appeared rendered by machine rather than human hand.

 _My dearest Christine,_

Her heart beat an uneven tattoo to read the endearment preceding her name, even though it wasn't real.

 _Forgive and be not alarmed by my absence; it is business, not shame over my boorish words and behaviour (though I rue both keenly), that calls me away this morning. I've pressing matters to which I must attend despite it being that prescribed day of idleness, the Sabbath. Please do not worry yourself over divine retribution befalling me. I am sure the Almighty has no plans to smite me for the sin as given my transgressions, this is decidedly trivial._

 _Wrath of God notwithstanding you can expect me back this afternoon. In the meantime I have addressed the concern with which you approached me yesterday and taken the liberty of ordering you a new trousseau. I hope you do not think me forward in having done_ _so, you_ _were asleep and I did not wish to wake you. The dressmaker was rather opposed to_ _persuasion but I prevailed as I am disposed to do. A seamstress will be by at nine o'clock_ _and with her is to bring a variety of dresses in need of tailoring._ _However fashionable these are I do not pretend to know but we have not time for custom orders_ _, a fact I lament greatly. Select_ _whatever captures your fancy_ _or the whole damn wardrobe for all I care, it has already been purchased._

 _Yours evermore,_

 _Erik_

His tone was civil, unexpectedly so. A surge of relief ran through her chest with the knowledge that they were again on good terms. They argued too often these days - but, then, hadn't theirs always been a tenuous balance of clashing tempers and tenderness? She did not exactly help matters by consistently antagonizing him, besides. Maybe in future she would try the slightest bit harder to be obliging (or at all).

Her grin widened when she came to the bit about his always getting his way, in her mind substituting the word 'persuasion' for bullying. She rolled her eyes. Only he could coax someone into working on a Sunday and only _he_ would even dare. The memorandum was so quintessentially him, so very Erik, that it read in his voice. This reverie concluded when her gaze strayed to the mantel clock.

 _Damnation!_ It was almost nine.

Any moment the seamstress and her coterie would whirl into the room in a cloud of tulle and chiffon barking orders at whichever poor sap had the responsibility of carting in the goods. Would it be as it had the time Meg and Mrs Giry had dragged her into Worth's - all silk, satin, snobbery and tedium?

Lord, she hoped not.

Unlike Meg, and the vast majority of her sex, she detested the whole business of fashion regarding it as a chore not a treat. Nigh on a month had gone by since she had been sheathed and wreathed in dress and corset; she didn't miss either. There was much more freedom to be had in trousers, both for sake of movement and convenience. Oh, how she'd mourn the loss of each. She sighed, donning the dressing gown Erik had draped over the desk chair. Working her curls into a messy plait, Christine tried to project _some_ air of noblesse as the clock hands lurched in a second-by-second countdown.

 _Ten, nine, eight—_

There was a faint commotion down the hall.

 _Seven, six, five, four—_

The noise grew louder, closer with each tick, boisterous and busy.

 _Three, two—_

A deep breath and she steeled herself for the inevitable. Well, here went nothing...

 _One_.

And, there it was: a knock right on cue.

No sooner had she opened the door than she was quite nearly bowled over by the sheer volume of boxes and trunks.

"Watch it there! Make way please, miss!"

Christine retreated to a corner to avoid being crushed, happily overseeing the procession from a safer distance. Things flowed into the room in an endless parade. She watched the spectacle intently, curious if everything would fit and amazed when it did; her eyes narrowed with the last of it - had he thought sending an entire dress shop would be funny? It certainly matched Erik's sadistic brand of humor.

Small wonder they two were ever at odds! Not even his gestures of kindness were removed from being infuriating in some way.

"'Scuse me— Pardon, Mrs Stoke, ma'am?" The mouse-squeak of a voice came from a slight thing, no older than herself and barely tall enough to be picked out from amidst the stacks of overflowing boxes. "The name's Letitia, ma'am. I've been sent by my mistress, Mrs Dove, at your husband's behest."

...her _husband_?

Oh, right: _Erik_ , her 'husband'.

She adopted what she prayed passed for a welcoming grin, "Good morning, Letitia. Please, call me Christine; I insist."

"Very well, Mrs— _Christine_ , if an' it please you."

"It would please me very much. I've not quite gotten used to being Mrs Stoke, you see." Well, it _was_ the truth, the seamstress needn't know her difficulty adjusting to her new title was owing to its falsity. "Shall we get started then?"

The girl nodded and, like a child having memorized a bit of scripture, recited, "Mrs Stoke is to choose whichever garments she likes but is urged to keep in mind she'll be travelling First Class and must have at least three evening gowns and enough dresses for the journey home. Here's everything from the shop, I hope there's somethin' to your liking, _Christine_."

" _Everything_ from the shop...?" she repeated in awe.

"Oh, yes, Captain Stoke wanted a 'wealth of choices' for you."

An amalgamation of guilt and appreciation arose within her stomach. She couldn't say which one she felt more acutely - or, indeed, which she _should_ be feeling. For while she was grateful for Erik's thoughtfulness she pitied Letitia, forced to toil on what was likely her sole day off. Christine, like most, had heard of the miserable plight of seamstresses, young girls made to work their fingers to the bone, sewing night and day, barely earning enough to feed themselves.

"I'm indebted to you for forsaking your Sabbath, truly I am."

"No worries, the Captain paid my mistress a small fortune and me as well - near five months of wages." She hastily covered her mouth as if she had uttered a profane secret. "I wasn't supposed to make mention of that, sorry ma'am."

"Of course," Christine promised with a smile that did not reach her eyes, "I'll forget I heard."

Guilt outstripped appreciation. Here was exactly why she'd been hesitant to broach the topic with him in the first place! She cursed herself for not waking sooner, maybe she might have talked him out of such extravagance. Resentment over being put in this incommodious position came fast on the heels of annoyance, for his laying out an egregious sum and forcing her to accept.

Letitia's livelihood now in her hands she couldn't very well refuse - how could she? And, _how_ could she ever repay him? Papa could provide reimbursement but owing to his modest beginning he had always erred on the side of frugal—this fact was of minimal consequence to her, she'd never been one for expensive trinkets or fine garments—he would balk when he received the bill and Christine would look every inch the sort of vapid chit she hated.

She could picture his frown, the pull of disappointment at the edges of his mouth. _Christine, my dear child,_ he'd say, _what has gotten into you? You've never been one for the frippery of Oriental silks or Italian lace..._ And she would have to sit there and hold her tongue, receiving criticism and discontent that were no real fault of hers.

No, every ounce of the blame was Erik's.

The nerve of that imperious scoundrel! Where had he found the capital anyway? She'd never seen him produce so much as a farthing in their time together - then again, given the man in question, he could have the Crown Jewels hidden on his person and nobody, including her, would be the wiser. God knows how much or _what_ he had. That aside, she loathed being indebted to anyone, much less to _him_.

Oh, they'd be having a talk about this, they most assuredly would, or her name wasn't Christine Agnes Daaé!

Though, it _wasn't_ so far as the rest of the world was concerned... Christine put that niggling detail from mind.

"My, what a lot of fine fabrics you have, Letitia." She said travelling the room in survey and dragging a bolt of satin between her fingers.

"Yes, ma'am. Mrs Dove, she says that we may have been forced to cover our shame since our exile from Eden but it might as well be in finery so short is our time on this Earth."

"And so I shall!" she replied on a laugh, selecting a few simple yet elegant pieces to start: befitting a lady of breeding without ostentatiousness, precisely her style. This was true of many of the garments she had seen in her seconds-earlier tour. Christine mulled over how much of a hand Erik had in that, her head swimming before she recollected that he'd ordered the shop entire. She exhaled, let down by the realization, bracing herself for the task ahead.

If she had thought the appointment would be all aloofness and glances with pins she was mistaken. There was an air of relaxation about the whole thing, novel and refreshing. Soon she and Letitia had cultivated an easy camaraderie between them and were talking like intimates, no stuffiness or class divisions to be felt.

This lack of austere formality took the edge off her new role. Yes, Mrs Stoke was a married woman with a past divergent from her own, however at the core they were synonymous, she was still the same Christine. That soothed her more than anything, the knowledge that she was merely representing more than she _was_ rather than portraying something she was _not_.

She could do this.

She _could_ play the blushing bride ... _and_ do a damn fine job too.

Morning quickly went by and she lost count of the bodices, skirts and petticoats. Throughout it all she learnt a whole host of information about the seamstress, the girl quite willing to talk - Christine gladly encouraged this, grateful the conversation hadn't turned to a past she had yet to invent.

Letitia hailed from a poor family in Manchester, one of many children; to ease the burden on her parents she and her elder sister accompanied their grandparents to Tortola. Soon after both sister and grandfather had departed—the former to America with her new husband, a naval lieutenant, and the latter into the hereafter—leaving only the seamstress and her grandmother to manage the family business. In the three years since the shop had been sold and she had become an aunt twice-over to a niece and nephew she had never seen and wasn't likely to for some time. There was no one to accompany her, she explained, her grandmother having sworn off long sea voyages at her age and the children being too young to travel.

"Beth'll bring 'em to visit when they're old enough, I'm sure of it; granny keeps writing to ask."

Christine's heart lurched at the conviction with which the statement was delivered. The girl's predicament was one all too familiar to her. She had cheated, overcome the obstacle with a clever disguise, but privilege and luck had a large hand in that - she had the benefit of a private cabin with facilities and she had Raoul; Letitia would have neither. What, then (if anything) could be done to aid her? Furthermore, what was _she_ , another helpless, vulnerable girl, to do?

Vulnerable, maybe; helpless, not at all.

It hit her suddenly, brilliant and mutually beneficial.

They were travelling First Class, she was expected to dress the part so why not act it as well? Didn't ladies of stature have personal maids to dress them and preen their pretty feathers?

As a seamstress she was stuck on the island cut-off from her beloved sister but as a _maid..._ Well, Letitia would have protection and friendship; and, as a bonus, she and Erik would be that much more inconspicuous amongst their peers. Besides, it was clear that in all his meticulous haste he had overlooked this particular area - so, really, she was doing him a favor. A smile played across her lips to have out-thought the brilliant Erik Grey.

Who was the witless one now?

"How would you like a temporary position, Letitia?"

"A position?!" Her question was reiterated with a touch of confused panic. "I don't take your meaning, ma'am."

"I meant no harm by it, please don't think my intent malicious. Only, I believe that you and I could help each other. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak... You see, my maid fell sick just before the journey, I've had to do without and though he does try Captain Stoke makes a poor substitute." Christine added a light giggle for effect, the lies readily slipping from lips that had not two days earlier been swift in their condemnation of dishonesty.

Worse still she was without remorse for the prevarications - even Erik had felt regret. Did that not make her actions more deplorable than his? Alas, no, she decided, the two were not equal, his fib had served no purpose and moreover had been used to deceive her. They were in this together, them against the world, to mislead others was to survive but to mislead one another...

 _That_ was unforgivable.

"You would receive wages for your work and we would see you safely back to your family in England. Do you have a relative who can escort you to America?"

"Yes, ma'am, my brother, Will. _But..._ " Gaity transitioned into a frown making Christine nervous; she swallowed it back. Her plan had to work, she was so very desperate to help. This was the only way. It would be difficult enough to convince Erik to take the girl on as a maid, forget as a companion or in any other capacity. "How can I do a job I've not been trained for?"

"It will be simple work, assisting me dressing and arranging my hair; I can tell from your own that you've skill with the latter."

"I had three younger sisters to practice on," Letitia admitted sheepishly.

"You'd like to see them again as well, I trust? Your grandmother will not mind, will she?"

"Yes, ma'am, very much. And, no, ma'am, she won't mind, she's been hoping I'll make more of myself than a seamstress."

"Will you accept my offer, then? Oh, please say you will!"

"I'll accept, ma'am."

"Excellent! I'm sure you'll be a wonderful lady's maid, Letitia."

"Are you sure Captain Stoke'll approve, ma'am?"

"Of course, my dear husband can refuse me nothing." she lied, well-aware of how ridiculous she sounded. Erik would delight in refusing her, few things would probably lend him more pleasure. Nonetheless she would succeed in bringing the seamstress along come hell or high water. He would see, she could be just as stubborn as the pig-headed mule himself.

They made it through two additional fittings before the clock struck noon. Perhaps more could have been accomplished had they cut back on idle chatter but Christine had missed having company of her own sex - it made her long for Meg more keenly than ever. By half past an evening gown joined the pile and lunch was ordered.

The day was running efficiently even so, minutes measured out in pinned hems and bites of food. It worked with the efficacy of a well-oiled theatre production, every actor playing their respective part including those absent. Like clockwork the door flew open at exactly one o'clock. She knew it was him even with her back turned, knew it from the dynamic buzz in the air.

All players now on stage it was time for the show to begin. Christine inhaled, setting her jaw in determination. She _could_ do this; she _would_ get her way.

"What, is the seamstress still here?"

"I'm near-finished, sir."

"I _do_ hope you've allotted yourself enough time to complete the order, girl."

"Oh, yes, sir! I'm a good worker... and quick too, sir!" she babbled anxiously, fluttering about like a hummingbird as she added a skirt and bodice to the stack, "But mistress says my stitches are none the worse for it."

"Carry on, then. Logic dictates you'll work faster if you limit your prattling."

Unfortunately, it was at this moment, as Letitia was reaching for an evening gown, that Christine's poorly-pinned hair finally came tumbling down. Although the girl had it rectified within seconds, her nimble fingers securing the plait, she wasn't fast enough to escape the eagle-eyed notice of their disgruntled overseer.

"I seem to recall hiring you to fit my wife for dresses _not_ toy with her hair. For the love of God, cease with the diversions and do your damn job, girl!"

"It isn't her fault, dearest," Christine chimed in rising to the seamstress' defense, "after that incident last week with the hair iron I thought you would have learnt that I am a danger to myself."

Not the best segué but it would have to serve.

"Of course, _darling,_ how could I have forgotten the cause of your newly-shorn locks?" Erik replied through grit teeth piggybacking off her fabrication.

Really, they _did_ make a laudable team.

That was, when he was not acting like an unmitigated arse... which, admittedly, was the case more often than not.

"You know, Letitia has a talent for hair and given that my poor maid took ill—"

"Why the devil should either of those things matter to me?"

"Well, I _am_ in need of a new maid and Letitia wishes to see her niece and nephew in America; I thought it the perfect arrangement." She worried her lip, held her breath and prayed this farce wouldn't come crashing down around her ears. An eternity shuffled by before he spoke.

"You are asking me to hire the seamstress so that she may enjoy a free holiday..."

"A free holiday? That's quite an exaggeration, dear, she would be working as my lady's maid."

"Wait outside, girl," His tone was gruff, clipped. "I need to discuss this with my _wife_." Not needing to be told twice the girl scurried from the room leaving her the sole focus of Erik's ire.

"Explain. _Now._ " he demanded in the same furious, barely-restrained whisper he'd employed the previous night. Christine closed her eyes and exhaled hard through her nostrils, vibrant memories of their spat and what followed flashing through her head; a wave of dizziness rushed over her.

She _could_ do this.

"We are attempting to draw as little attention as possible whilst travelling, are we not?"

So far, so good...

"And, what of it?"

" _And,_ Letitia cannot travel from the Caribbean to New York by herself."

"I fail to see what bearing that has on me..."

"Do you not think our being the only First Class passengers without servants will arouse suspicion, or come off as odd at the very least?"

Erik scowled. The infuriating wretch had a valid point. He couldn't tell which annoyed him more, this or the fact he had disregarded such an important detail. Damn her persistence and damn her sensibility! There was no denying she was correct in her assessment. Still he couldn't yet own to his mistake, pride wouldn't allow for it.

"We are destined for England not America, how would that be of any help to the girl?"

"She has family in Manchester, brothers and sisters. Once there she can stay with them and they can make the voyage across the Atlantic together. Her guardian will approve as the position is a step up from her current one." Erik shook his head to clear the incredulity from it, he could not believe he was actually deigning to consider her proposal, foolish as it was outlandish. Lord, what had become of him?

Perhaps it was because he was weary of their bickering or that she was right. Or, perhaps it was the way the dressing robe, _his_ dressing robe, adhered to her figure and brought every curve into sharp focus. Whatever the reason the battle was lost.

" _Fine_ ," he huffed in vexed resignation scribbling something to paper, "but there _will_ be conditions." Christine didn't know if he was talking to her or reassuring himself. Regardless, he summoned the shaking seamstress back into the room shortly thereafter.

"I have chosen to take you on as my wife's lady's maid at her behest. Mind you, this is _not_ a permanent position, you will be dismissed the moment we disembark in England. I trust you have family there to claim you?" Letitia nodded, saucer-eyed, resembling a rabbit before a hungry snake. "If it is later revealed that you've not been truthful on this front you will be on your own, do I make myself clear? I will not be held responsible for your well-being or what becomes of you." Another trembling nod. "In lieu of references I ask you to prove yourself this afternoon. As it happens I have a list of items that must be procured before departing, _feminine_ items that I feel are not a man's place to collect; you are to return tomorrow with the aforementioned things and I shall have a contract of employment awaiting your signature _if_ you are still interested. In the event of your agreement you will be expected to be back here with my complete order and all of the necessary travel documents at noon. I do not tolerate tardiness, girl, consider yourself forewarned. These are my terms. Do you accept?"

"Y-Yes, sir." Letitia squeaked, her face paper-white.

"I will provide the money, I'm sure the both of you can spend it admirably."

The sardonic bite of his declaration lingered in the room even after he had departed but it was no matter... She had done it, she had succeeded in reuniting Letitia with her family. And, _that_ , was worth every bit of Erik's irritation.

"Don't worry," she consoled the shaken girl, "He comes off as frightening but Captain Stoke is a good and fair man underneath the bluster." This time Christine meant every word she said.

 **o o o**

Erik grew increasingly impatient as afternoon slipped into evening, a fact reflected in the music filling the claustrophobic space. Things kept on in this manner until every strain became restless and ornery. It was the first time he had played since that night and though his left hand was resistant, the fingers rigid, painful and clumsy, they had lost none of their skill. Despite the pain he would not have forsaken this opportunity for the world, to him music was as essential as respiration.

The inn had two parlors: one large, bedecked with windows and comfortable furniture and one small, threadbare and sparsely furnished aside from the large piano occupying half the room. The sight of the instrument proved impossible to resist - hadn't he begrudged himself enough over the past fortnight, besides? Self-denial only extended so far, a reality that, day-by-day, was also coming true with regards to Christine.

He thought back to last evening, to yet another foiled kiss...

—to those scant moments in the bath that began with thoughts of her and ended _within_ her.

In fantasy he took her as he had in dreams: on the rug, the table, the desk, in the bed, against the wall and windowsill. No place was excluded from the domain of lust nor could he hide from it, his only option was to fight it head-on. Maybe then he'd stand a chance. He imagined it was the smooth caress of Christine's hand rather than his own calloused one.

Relief was transitory, a splint on a broken limb, the remedy for the physical ache temporary. It did nothing to assuage the longing, if anything it heightened it, cleared his mind to make way for additional visions. He was a mess; he was coming apart at the seams. His control was waning, it would be a miracle if he survived the remainder of this trip.

Now nothing could dampen his agitation and he hoped Christine and that jittery little seamstress would arrive soon. They had _better_ arrive soon. The pile of paper to his left caught his attention, he clenched his jaw as he pounded out savage chords. He had paid that fool solicitor a ludicrous amount to draft a contract on such short notice and on a Sunday too. It was money thrown away. As the document did not contain his real name it would mean nothing in a proper court; he could have easily forged such a thing for no cost but knew nothing of the girl or her connections and so decided to err on the side of caution.

Finally when he was like to combust into flames he heard movement overhead and the distinct trill of female voices. His angry fingers wove temperamental improvisation into a lively piece by Tausig. Lost in the complexity as he was Erik did not hear the door slide open nor the sound of footsteps. Only when the song ended on a sweet sigh did he register he was no longer alone.

Quite suddenly he could not remember how to breathe.

Never had he thought himself a fortunate man but at that instant even a cynic could not argue that luck had been on his side, for if he had seen her a second sooner he would have made a mockery of Tausig's music. Truth be told, Erik had fairly forgotten that he could play. Erroneously he had considered himself prepared to see her in a dress having pictured little else all day.

 _And_ , all he could think was that it had been worth every aggravation—the seamstress, the money, the contract, the inconvenience—and of how mistaken he was to believe imagination could have done her justice.

Hers was the beauty inspiring ballads and sonnets.

What a difference a proper fitting change of clothes could make, as if she had shed her filthy cloak of donkey skin and revealed the princess underneath.

Dear God, she was stunning, absolutely _breathtaking_.

Speech promptly deserted him.

Propelled by a latent sense of chivalry he leapt to his feet, his hand making contact with the keys in an ear-splitting assault. He couldn't recall ever feeling so foolish, not even in youth - Christ, how long had his mouth been hanging open? And, when had his collar grown so tight? What she must think of him stumbling and gaping slack-jawed like an imbecile!

"Well, how do I look?"

Had she not spoken Erik might have stared for an eon wasting away like Narcissus before the reflecting pool.

"You look... You _are_ —" The words died on his lips, droplets of rain sucked up by thirsty soil; he cleared his throat.

"Is it that ghastly?" she asked, crestfallen.

"Not at all! Forgive me. You look... _lovely_." A choked, constricted, pathetic, wholly inadequate testament to her comeliness but it was all that emerged. Evidently it satisfied for she gifted him a radiant smile.

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly. Now, tell me, have you eaten?"

"I had a light luncheon after breakfast but that's all."

"I see, I shall order us some supper then; you must be hungry." Erik scarcely stayed long enough to see her nod before he quit the room, resolved not to make himself look more absurd than he already must.

 **o o o**

He heard long before he saw anything, acute ears detecting the tinkle of piano keys. Erik paused in the hall - the uncertain plucking had shifted into Glinka's, Nocturne in F Minor, _La Séparation_. Unable to stop himself he entered the room, loathing this impetuous decision when the melody ended and she looked up at him.

"You play." he said reservedly, statement rather than query. Christine faltered, sable eyes growing big.

"Y-Yes. Well, that is, I do a little. I've nowhere near your proficiency."

"Few do," was the automatic reply, issued as a fact, "Nonetheless, continue, _please_."

She stared at him both floored and petrified. He wanted her to play? He, whose talent could rival Mozart, wished to witness her plodding, primitive proficiency on the piano - to what end? It had to be a joke at her expense, smacked of his typical sarcasm.

"You should not tease me."

"I am doing no such thing, I would simply like to hear you."

"And, should I agree will you return the favor?"

"If that would please you."

"Oh, but— Can you play with your hand as it is?" Christine inquired, dubiously eyeing the injured appendage. No longer a grotesquely swollen fright it stood out still, the lithe fingers puffy and the bruising stark - though it had begun to turn a sickly shade of yellow-green at the edges, a sign it was on the mend.

His eyes narrowed, "Was I not doing so earlier?"

"I am just worried, I don't want you crippling yourself for my sake." He scoffed; if only she knew that he'd cripple himself a thousand times over were she to will it.

"Your concern is mislaid, I'm fine. _Now_ , you've stalled quite long enough, little princess..."

" _Yes, yes_ ," she agreed dismissively, "And, you will play for me afterwards?"

"You need only name the composition, my dear."

"Very well, then."

With that conversation died and music was born from its ashes. Erik had never been so enamored. Indeed, he had never paid other musicians much care his usual attitude one of arrogant condescension, however, Christine had him enraptured. It didn't matter that the piece was not perfectly executed or that she missed a few notes, something about her little hands flitting over the keys held him in an unbreakable thrall.

It was then that he fell, well and truly _fell_ \- no more demurrals.

He could love.

He _did_ love her.

When the song concluded he was nearly breathless.

"Well done, you were spectacular."

She stared at him queerly, a hint of pride glazing her eyes, "Do you really mean that?"

Well, he supposed he deserved that, his usual modus having been criticism rather than praise.

"As I told you the day before last, I cannot bring myself to lie to you."

"Oh. I wasn't sure if—"

"Nonetheless," he interposed, a bit wounded, "I thought the value of my given word had been proven."

"Yes, of course it has; I apologize. But, since we are on the subject of your word... It is _your_ turn to play, you did promise."

"I did, yes... And, what does the little princess demand?"

"She demands to be surprised." Erik's mouth quirked in that haughty smirk so endemic to him.

"I believe I can accommodate that request."

Thus passed the remainder of the evening, with him playing while she listened dreamily, a blithe tilt of honest-to-goodness contentment to her lips; they took their supper in the parlor. Christine watched him move from song to song with indefatigable fingers, the fluttering sensation in her stomach spreading with each piece. To her Erik had never seemed more alluring. Had someone told her that this man and the one she brained in the shed a fortnight ago were one and the same, she would have denounced them for a lunatic.

Once, alone in a cave as the Earth roiled and writhed, she had declared him the opposite of appealing. Now it was clear a reassessment was due. So, _what_ did she feel for him? What was this giddy, aching warmth in her chest called? Love? No, surely not. Then, again... She pondered over it, presenting the argument within the court of her mind and hoping for some sort of verdict. The deliberation waged on until he stood and beckoned to her.

"Come, I've something to show you."

Still lost in this airy world of thought she followed him upstairs. Their room resembled a sad, barren wasteland devoid of its earlier clutter. Brow raised, she watched him kneel by the bed and use his knife to prise two floorboards loose. This blatant defacement of property unnerved her, but then—recalling who it was in question—Christine swallowed her alarm looking on in keen interest as he extracted a box from the hidden place.

He carried it to the table and stepped back in an unspoken invitation for her to peek inside - when she did she was absolutely floored: cradled within the innocuous nest of unvarnished wood lay an assemblage of jewellery. Though she couldn't say with any certitude what she'd been expecting, it was not this. She stared mutely, transfixed like Ali Baba in the thieves' hoard.

"What do you think? _Well?!_ " Erik pressed impatiently when no reply came, fingers working in nervous motions at his sides.

"I—" she struggled, "It's— _What_ is it, exactly?" He flashed her a strange glance as if questioning whether or not she was serious.

"I should think that answer obvious."

"But, _why_?" she stressed; Christine shook her head in frustration both at his sarcasm and her inability to expound. "What is it for?"

"For _you_ , of course." The words were colored with slight condescension. "Why else should I present you with a box of jewels if not intending them to be worn?"

 _For ... her?_

All of these trinkets were meant for _her_?!

" _Good God,_ " she whispered, awestruck. Lost in this place of bewilderment she picked up a strand of pearls adorned with a diamond flower studying it with eyes stunned into sightlessness. All of this and for her? It was more than she could process. Another necklace, this one of emerald and diamond caught her attention - not _real_ emeralds or diamonds but a cheap facsimile, she amended.

Surely, these were faux pieces crafted simply to appear expensive.

 _If not_ —

Well, it didn't bear consideration, there was no possible way these articles were the genuine thing.

"Would you care to try it on?" Christine started at the sound of his voice so close behind having momentarily forgotten she wasn't alone. She gave a faint nod jumping again at the cold kiss of metal against her throat.

"Very becoming, if but a touch old-fashioned. I apologize if you're of more modern tastes but the options were few; this collection came from the estate of a local widow, it was the best I could find. Here," Erik pulled a hand mirror from the desk drawer. "Look for yourself."

"It _is_ rather pretty and elegant however I still fail to see the purpose in all of this; the new dresses were a necessity _but_ the jewellery..."

"The jewellery is yet another detail, little princess - an accessory to sell the pretense, if you will. Which, reminds me..." Her eyes grew into saucers as he extricated a second, much smaller box from his pocket; her breath hitched in knowing even before he opened it.

Oh Lord—

A ring.

 _With this ring I thee wed,_

Words borrowed from an eternal vow pounded in her skull in time with her heartbeat. Oh God, he was giving her a ring! Not a banal band of gold or silver. There was no denying the prestige of it, a piece worthy to grace the dainty, lily-white finger of a peeress.

A vivid stone of marquise-cut cornflower blue centrally set and crowned with diamonds. It seemed too flawlessly beautiful to be natural. She beheld it with mild fright as if worried it might rear up and bite her, scrutinizing it with a hesitance that bordered on hysterical. All at once everything became real, _too real_. The title of Mrs, the new wardrobe, the jewellery: she could handle those. But, the ring—

 _Oh_ , the ring!

 _That_ was too much and too fast, the errant block that sent the tower crashing to the ground. Christine tried valiantly to regulate her breathing. Erik continued to stare at her in patient suspense.

"Well?" he gently prompted, "Is it to your liking?"

"It's— It's _lovely_." The whisper, adequate to answer his question, provided no extrapolation; she could manage nothing else.

His mouth compressed into a unamused line to hear his own fumbled words echoed back. Erik mused over whether this was punishment for underselling her beauty but concluded her shock genuine ... _and_ grew annoyed when it persisted.

"Oh, Erik, you didn't have to—"

"Don't be daft, girl. Of course I bloody did! How are you to be a wife without a ring? Even those in a painful sham of a union must look the part, my dear..." He uttered the last with a desire to wound, lashing out to hide his own anguish.

Humiliation, ugly and white-hot, rose to the fore in a mighty wave. A voice laughed from somewhere within his brain. Had he honestly believed his feelings returned? Had the monster, the faceless nightmare, deluded itself into thinking the maiden fair would have him?

Beauty could _not_ adore deformity after all, it appeared.

—and, he hated her for it.

Hated her for those sweet smiles and coy glances; hated her for the touches and coquetry; hated her for giving him hope...

Above all, he hated that he loved her still.

Ears reddened and expression frantic, Christine tried and failed to explain herself. Erik was silent; he did not need to talk, the glassy aloofness in his gaze spoke volumes.

"This is all strange to me. I just— I've never worn jewellery before."

"I suppose, then, that you must endure the bizarre novelty of being bedecked in gems for the remainder of our voyage. What a burden, _indeed_."

"Not _real_ gems, though." she corrected finding her voice once more.

"What do you mean?"

"They aren't— Surely, they can't be real." Glacial eyes glittered with offense.

"Why the hell _wouldn't_ they be?"

"Well, the cost, I suppose..."

" _So_ ," he drawled, "naturally, you presumed me too miserly to purchase the real articles. I am surprised you did not assume them pilfered given my status as a lowly, duplicitous criminal."

"No! Erik, I would _never_... Please, I only meant—"

" _Don't_ bother... I am going for a walk to clear my head. Feel free to inspect your new curios with a hand-lens, young Daaé, you'll find them quite authentic." Casting the ring aside as if it were a hot coal he swept towards the door.

Christine knew he must be stopped, was cognizant another angry exit might kill their fledgling relationship entirely; she yearned to run after him, grab his shoulder, whirl him round and set her lips to his. But, all she did was stand there stupidly. Just like last night she let him slip through her fingers, her cowardice allowing his retreat.

Erik was long-gone by the time the tears coursed down her cheeks. He never heard her baleful plea of forgiveness nor did he see her scramble for the small box that lay discarded on the table and slide the ring onto the third finger of her left hand. Only gas lamps and furniture were present to witness her astonishment when she discovered it fit perfectly.

Alone.

She was completely alone and it was all her fault.

—and, she despised herself for it.

 **o o o**

It happened as she was drifting off, the fuzzy yellow haze of a lamp visible through slivered eyelids. She had left the light on for him in a desperate bid to guide him back, a moth to a flame - or maybe it had been to dispel her loneliness. Whatever the impetus it was irrelevant, he never came. Christine bathed and waited up but with no success; eventually she went to bed alone.

 _Just like last night_...

Despite her inner torment the world around her was restful. Sleep came easy in this place of tranquility, even with the gnawing absence.

All was at peace. Until _all_ began to vibrate...

Initially she discarded it as conjured, a strange quirk preceding slumber like the floating or falling sensation one sometimes experienced. A jostle became a violent quaking and Christine was propelled out of bed by sheer terror, her eyes flying open the moment her feet hit the floor.

From over her shoulder there was a loud crash, the shattering of glass, and then darkness - the lamp the first casualty. As everything began to rumble an ear-splitting racket rent the air. She blindly groped for the bedpost, her other hand shielding an ear from the awful wailing. Hysterically she tried to convince herself that it was a dream.

Even though she knew it wasn't.

She could barely breathe, her useless eyes stretching wide in a panicked effort to locate _him_ , to locate Death before he came. For this was no dream, it was the end. Christine clutched the post tighter, silently begging the hideous keening thing to shut up so they might go undiscovered. It was futile - she knew that too - Death would claim her regardless. He had not trekked all this way to leave empty-handed.

This was her punishment for abandoning her dearest friend, for fleeing Martinique to save herself, for condemning Peleé's survivors. The price for turning away from suffering was steep, only life could pay for death. She had escaped her fate at the expense of tens of thousands of other souls. Now, her debt called up, it was her turn; she would die tonight - of that she was certain.

Die alone, friendless in a foreign place.

— _just like Raoul._

Die without making amends, die without telling Erik that she—

He would never know; he would go on thinking her a horrid, ungrateful wretch.

The world roiled with greater fury mocking her, drinking in the heady scent of fear and regret. Suddenly there were voices, those which had haunted her in nightmares renewed in strength; they were calling her name, urging her to submit. Death stood in the room with her, she detected his presence, discerned the silhouette of his cowl, blacker than the surrounding blackness; he approached methodically.

Unlike her last brush with mortality she was so very afraid. There was no serenity in this. She could feel his icy aura and the cloying grasp of clammy, rotting fingers. With a bold defiance Christine breathed her last and faced Death head-on.

But when the Reaper at last embraced her fright dissolved, the oscillations grew distant...

... _and_ , the caterwaul became the song of the heavens.

And, it dawned on her that this was not Reaper but Angel.

Fear evaporated in the golden splendor of the melody and so too did she lose herself, a wandering lamb in Eden. Death was chased away by music pure and beautiful. She inhaled again savoring the sweetness that was living.

When it was all over, when the quaking subsided, Christine returned to her corporeal body. Although her feet did rest upon the cold floor her body was warm and safe in the arms of her Guardian Angel; the glorious tones of his voice still ringing in her ears. She nuzzled into the fabric of his robes and whispered her gratitude, holding fast to him with the intention of never letting go.

* * *

 **I can hear some of you yelling, "God, FINALLY!"at your screens, lol.**

 **Yes, Erik at last admitted his feelings - just don't expect him to own to them in the immediate future.**

 **A/N: I've been working on a drawing of the ring and was going to wait until it was completed to publish the chapter but drawing gemstones - especially when they are marquise-cut - is tedious to say the least. I will eventually have that up on deviantart.**

 ***Worth's was a fashion house founded by Charles Worth - considered by many to be the father of haute couture - and an important and sought after dressmaker in London.**

 ***The Tausig piece I had in mind was, _Das Geisterschiff_ (The Ghost Ship); I felt it fit the hectic, impatient mood well.**

 ***The little aside about the princess and her cloak of donkey skin is from the tale of _Donkeyskin_ by Charles Perrault. It's messed up but also oddly good. **

***Ali Baba is of course from the tale of _Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves._**

 ***I realize the ending might have been a little confusing. No, it wasn't a dream or a hallucination but an earthquake. Tortola is no stranger to seismic activity, however, there is no volcano in the vicinity; it was just a minor tremor but Christine, being freshly traumatized by the eruption, exaggerated things in fear. Everything will be explained better next chapter, I promise.**


	26. And the billows frothed like yeast

**A/N: So this was one of my least favorite chapters to write, it's sort of a bridge between the last and the next. I struggled to make it work - which, is why it took so long to put up - and hopefully it passes muster. It's a long one, at least. Incidentally its successor was one of my favorite chapters to write, so go figure.**

 **As always thank you for your reviews, I look forward to reading more (hint, hint). ;)**

* * *

 **12 May - Departure from Tortola**

A 'tropical storm', they called it, the force that morphed the waves into living mountains. Nothing to be concerned over, came their swift assurances, the ship would weather the foul spell with ease - she was designed with rough seas in mind, after all. Granted, it _was_ a tad early in the year for this type of tempest, precursor to a hurricane, according to the more experienced mariners. Yet all in all there was no need for alarm, at least that was the consensus.

As for Christine, she was dubious of these claims.

Some of the sailors and braver passengers even welcomed the storm, glad for the chance to observe what they had only read or heard about. In her decided opinion they were all of them mad, every single one. To her it was a scourge plain and simple, the thing responsible for the horrid nausea plaguing her body. Never had she, the progeny of a shipping magnate, expected to lose her sea-legs. But, alas, here she was cleaving onto the toilet as if it were a lifeline.

They had disembarked—Letitia in tow—at five o'clock that afternoon under a canopy of menacing grey, herald of the bad weather to come. Whispers of an impending squall fell like raindrops about Road Town long before the morning sunshine had died. Hysteria built upon itself until the port was empty, everybody departing in a frenzy. It was owing to pure chance alone that they managed to find passage amidst chaos.

However, as the saying went: _where one door closes, another opens_.

Said opening swooped in, a _Jovis ales_ in the form of a large ship. One far nicer than the typical tramp steamers that came and went, not only a paradigm of luxury but also a crown jewel in the famed fleet. The Norddeutscher Lloyd ocean liner had suffered a problem with her water tanks shortly after beginning the voyage from New Orleans back to her native Germany. Both Cuba and Florida were closer but with her dwindling water supply and the brewing storm the captain had elected to take a safer route, a route that led them past the Virgin Islands.

Too massive to berth in an island port, the ship was forced to anchor offshore and send forth her boats to gather water and supplies for repairs; it was on one of these runs that Erik approached the crew and procured a suite: two bedrooms, a parlor, dining room, and private bath.

Christine had been thrilled by this, the grandeur found in the modern transatlantic liners was said to be unparalleled. She was barely able to curb her girlish titillation as they were rowed out to the waiting vessel. It did not disappoint. Stately, bigger than anything she had ever seen before, the ship was a floating majesty. At last after weeks of living like a vagabond she could laze in splendor. Already her troubles seemed to fade, gone was the threat to her safety, out of mind were the strange and novel emotions that had been brewing for the past two weeks.

Little did she know it was a curse disguised as a blessing.

Were she an augur of Ancient Rome this would have come as no surprise, an eagle flying left-to-right was a favorable omen, right-to-left was the opposite. The ship had sailed from the west, a menacing portent.

Only in retrospect did she recollect this bit of information from her Latin studies - not that it did her any good, the damage was already wrought. Even in her pathetic state her mind was quick to dismiss this fleeting thought for the tosh it was. Superstitions were as factual as witches or goblins. She was a creature of science, of concrete evidence and proofs; her current predicament was just a random fluke _not_ a forecasted misfortune.

They had boarded before a captive audience, stepping onto the First Class promenade deck as if on parade. Whether this contagious curiosity was merely due to their being new arrivals or because of his mask, she didn't know. Regardless of why they were objects of fascination. Christine latched onto Erik's proffered arm tighter than was merited applying gentle pressure in a show of solidarity-cum-camouflage for her own unease. Her breath caught in her chest, blood pounding in her temples; her nerves crackled anxiously. It was a ghastly sensation, the wall of gazes hemmed them in from every side - why wouldn't they stop staring?

Disconcerted, she looked to him for reassurance. A momentary flash of empathy alighted in his eyes before it gave way to resignation. His expression was that of a wild beast, beaten, caged and put on display; it was heartbreaking. Good God, was this what he was made to endure each time he ventured into public? Now she understood what two nights ago had mystified her. Suddenly his attitude of astringent contempt made sense. She could scarcely conceive of the toll a lifetime of such attention must have taken. Really, it was a miracle he had retained an iota of goodness and compassion where most would have been driven to insanity. The knowledge made her ill. Christine gave his bicep another squeeze and interlaced her fingers with his in commiseration.

The walk below felt as though it stretched on for miles, lengthened by the presence of the crowd. When they reached their cabin she was awash with ebullient joy. Never had she been so glad to be sequestered away from sky and open air. Their accommodations were as grand as she had dreamt, perhaps more so, better than a majority of the homes or hotels she had visited. It almost made up for the manner of their arrival, _almost_.

For awhile she was able to forget everything. Then, all went kaput.

What began as an inkling of queasiness rapidly devolved into utter misery. The ship's charms soon lost their sway. Despite the surrounding extravagance she was heartily resenting the world at present, illness was no better in a gilded apartment than it was in a hovel and every bone-jarring retch brought Christine closer to swearing off sea travel forever.

Of the six hours that had since elapsed five had been spent gazing into a pool of her own sick. Thus, the literal eleventh-hour found her holed up in the bathroom, curled round the toilet like a familiar lover and convinced her organs would be expelled through her mouth.

Worse still the sickness showed no sign of abating.

And, with all remedies seemingly exhausted, the trip was promising to be an ordeal, a voyage through hell itself. No antiemetic, chemical or herbal, had passed muster. Eventually the ship's physician had been summoned, who—after administering a combination of effervescing powders, iodide of potatassium, and acetanilide dissolved in brandy—had declared the ailment simply had to run its course but not before suggesting to a wide-eyed Erik that she was in the 'family-way' - though spoken in German the gist of the comment was unmistakable. She was too forlorn to be mortified.

Poor Letitia had tried to offer what comfort she could but was starting to lag, beneath the soothing tone was an undercurrent of strain. In the shallow woe of illness she begrudged the seamstress for both treating her like a child and tiring of doing so. As for _him_ , her 'husband', he had vanished promptly after the doctor's diagnosis.

— _not_ that he could rightfully be blamed for that. She, too, had longed for the sanctuary of invisibility and she didn't even speak the language. Christine could only imagine how keen his discomfort had been. Lord, she would be surprised if he could ever bear to look her in the eye again! He would probably spend the night in hiding, she briefly pondered _where_ before envy took hold - would that she had also been able to flee!

Letitia did not remain much longer, quitting the room on a yawned apology. _Good riddance!_ decried that petty part of her. Finally alone with self-pity her sole companion. She was torn between relief and sorrow, that was until she heard the rumble of conversation in the background.

She would know _that_ voice anywhere.

 _Well, well, well ..._ if it wasn't her escort, back from whatever dank hole he had absconded to.

From the whispers she inferred it was meant to be a changing of the guard. Christine made the grave error of turning her head at the sound of footsteps. Adrift in the subsequent despair his presence was almost forgotten, then the caress of a cool cloth at her nape.

"Oh, Christine..." he crooned gathering up her rebellious curls and working them into a plait. Erik said nothing else allowing the gesture to serve where words would have been trite. She was grateful for this insight. Slowly, his hand began tracing circles upon her spasming back, warming flesh that had since grown chilled in the seamstress' absence; it was among the few instances that he had willingly sought to touch her. Were she not so despondent it would have set her aflame from head to foot.

"It is hardly my greatest work but I've managed to cobble together a carminative tea of sorts, I did the best I could with the available ingredients; it should alleviate your symptoms."

"T—Tea...?" she croaked, dry lips cracking.

"Yes, something had to be done in the wake of that idiot physician's failure. Where he received his medical degree I couldn't begin to fathom, perhaps he found it stuck to the sole of his shoe." Christine tried to giggle but instead choked, her throat raw.

 _That's_ where he had been all this time, brewing her a special tea? Why had she been so hasty to assume he had abandoned her? She was suddenly struck with the image of him towering over a nervous, sweaty cook as he demanded various herbs and spices. A pang of guilt speared her through the ribs.

"Can you manage by yourself?" The inquiry was issued sans its usual sarcastic bite. Christine eased back onto her heels in affirmation receiving the mug with shaky hands. It had a herbal quality - not bad in the slightest, an improvement over the previous treatments; she took a second gulp.

This appeared to satisfy for he went on, "Naturally, owing to your sex the imbecile presumed you were either suffering a bout of hysteria or pregnant. God forbid a female patient present with a complaint inconsistent with one of those diagnoses, his entire world would come crashing down about his ears."

Over the next ten minutes Christine drained the mug with gradual surety. The miracle cure worked its magic swiftly. Already her stomach had begun to calm, the nausea ebbing somewhat. For the first time in hours her demise didn't seem imminent.

"You've regained some of your color," Erik muttered quietly as if embarrassed to voice the observation. "Has the tea helped?"

"I think so, yes. I feel a little better."

"Good, I was— _we_ , that is the girl and I, were worried. Sea-sickness should not be underestimated, the prognosis can turn dire if it persists. I learnt the recipe from a Chinaman during my travels to the Orient." There was a flutter in her chest to learn of his concern, despite his grouping it with that of Letitia.

"Did you ever get sea-sick?"

"No, I've always been blessed with a rude constitution. There was an acquaintance of mine, another boy, he inherited the condition from his mother and yet he was still resolved to join the Royal Navy."

Christine sighed and laid her head in the crook of her arm. If he was disgusted by her using the toilet's edge as a pillow he gave no indication. _Thank God for that_ , she thought; she couldn't deal with his condescension, not tonight.

"I've never been sea-sick either," she said with a touch of petulance, "I believed myself immune having been on ships most of my life. On the voyage from England my health was sound, and on the trip to Tortola as well. I can't account for it."

"The weather is the most likely culprit. Your Atlantic crossing was uneventful and our previous journey took us through calm, coastal waters."

"I hope it will blow over soon."

"By my estimation we should be free of it tomorrow. We are travelling eastward and these storms always move to the west."

"How do you know?"

"They follow the trade-wind belt along the equator."

"Did you make a study of tempests in your time at sea?"

"I've encountered quite a few, some worse than others. In the Indian Ocean they are called cyclones rather than hurricanes. Do you recall when I told you of my experience with broken glass?"

"You mentioned it in the cave that night, the night I hurt my hand..."

"It happened during a particularly vicious cyclone, I had gone down to the hold to secure the cargo when one of the crates was dashed against the hull; I lost my footing. I had never realized the sheer volume of blood contained by the body until then." She grimaced at the nonchalant way in which he recounted nearly bleeding to death, at the way he made light of something so gruesome. His eyes narrowed into a thin band of blue in response to her disquiet.

" _Obviously_ I survived the ordeal. The injury was not the worst I've endured, besides, far from it." Christine's features sagged in shock, she was horrified yet concurrently her morbid intrigue piqued. For the umpteeth time she wondered what kind of life he had lived. She was aware he was scarred, remembering in vivid detail the lines that scored his back - could this be what he referenced? Her lips parted in question but Erik cut-in before she could form the words.

"Enough of this ghoulish talk, the subject is not one conducive to your recovery. I have a more appropriate diversion in mind; I'll be back shortly. Will you be all right in my absence?"

She could have said no, could have made him stay but chose not to. There was no point, it wasn't as if he would expound. Besides, she needed the time to sort her own thoughts. Her rebounding health brought side-effects, with the fog of torment lifted there was nothing to mask her conflicting emotions. Now she would have to face them. If she did not there would be no peace to be had.

Ribs and muscles aching in feeble protest Christine reclined against the sink readying herself for the onslaught. She was never fond of introspection, even less so when it involved feelings, to be thrown into such a tumult vexed her. And, all because of a single pompous, insufferable man! Oh, how far she had fallen but _fallen_ she had. It was undeniable, she was past the point of no return and there was no coming back, _he_ was in her very soul. Her fate was sealed; she needed him, craved him like a drug. Last night was a testament to the fact.

 _Ah, last night..._

Libertine nights followed by meditative days had become the pattern, last night was but an addition to an ever-expanding list. At this rate her virtue would be forfeit within the week. Strangely, this prospect did not elicit the horror it should have. Comprehension dawned that she was already and irredeemably lost but she couldn't bring herself to care.

She still did not know how it happened - by all that was logical it _shouldn't_ have. Memories of the room shaking, of potent fear and vulnerability, of an ethereal voice and warm embrace spilled forth but none could claim to be the catalyst that had spurred her to immodesty. There was no explanation for the shameless request, long conceived of in theory, never made a reality.

 _Until_ last night.

Christine comforted herself by blaming the terror that clouded rationality; she would not have been so bold had she her wits. Hindsight was always useful in assuaging guilt. Somewhere between finding herself in Erik's arms and the last fading notes of his song she had asked the unthinkable.

It began as an aimless plea tinged with that beseeching note she sometimes employed with papa and Raoul. Never had she thought it would work on Erik ... but, it _had_.

 ** _Would you, could you, come to bed with me? I cannot sleep alone._**

He had looked so helpless then, like a new father with a colicky babe; the glint in his storm-cloud eyes was one of surprise and mild fright.

—as well it should have been.

There was naught but impropriety in her appeal. He did not reply, not for several moments. The ensuing silence, awkward and unbearable, had her frantically wondering what he was thinking. Desperation drove her tongue once more.

 ** _I won't be able to sleep otherwise. I'm so afraid, I thought I was going to die._**

His assent was no more than a sussuration.

 _Very well._

Her pulse raced to revisit it—just as it had then—the rhythmic pounding felt all the way down in her toes. The drumming had filled the empty quiescence, replacing the minutes-ago tremors, a symphony of anticipation where its predecessor had been one of destruction. When he did at last join her she worried her heart would stop.

They had lain there in hesitance, arms locked at their sides, stiff as two planks of wood, neither moving or speaking; it was Christine whose quivering entreaty broke the impasse.

 ** _Hold me,_ ** she whimpered, **_please._**

Shyly, haltingly, he obliged. She snuggled closer and heard the catch of breath, his body stiffening and heartbeat skipping as her head came to rest upon his chest. In that instance of green nervousness she had uttered the first thing that came to mind.

 ** _Your shirt still smells of wood smoke._**

Immediately thereafter she cursed her foolish tongue. A voice in her head countered that she was past such bothers and should instead be worried he thought her a hussy; she ignored it.

 _The smell can linger even after washing; I can change if it offends you._

 ** _No, I find it soothing._**

She had nuzzled into him then, fisting a hunk of his shirt; his arm moving to encircle her only after an eternity had seemingly trudged by. The quietude lagged onward. Again she was the first to breech it.

 ** _You_ can _sing - that is, you sang to me..._**

 _I believed it might provide comfort, you were in a terrible state when I returned; I heard your screams down the hall._

 _ **I was certain I would die... the tremors, I thought them part of another eruption. Oh, Erik, I was petrified!** _ Her declaration broke on a dry sob and she snuggled closer still.

 _Shh, little princess, be still; there's not a volcano for a great many miles. Tortola is susceptible to earthquakes, it lies on a fault._

 _ **No eruption?** _ she inquired shakily, **_Just an earthquake?_**

 _Yes. You are safe; sleep now, Christine..._

And, she had.

She had slept and slept soundly, the best she had slept in well over a week.

So, surely her indiscretion wasn't _all_ bad. It wasn't as if it had been motivated by lust, any terrified young girl in her position might have done the same. Really, her actions were not imprudent. If she hadn't been insensible with fear she would have never even made the suggestion. The lie placated her conscience and brought a smile to her face.

"Ah, on the mend at last it would seem..."

Christine's eyes flew open upon hearing his voice. Damn his sneaking! Was she forever doomed to be caught out? Half-hysterically she considered fitting him with a bell as one would a cat and tried her best to school her expression into impassivity. He couldn't possibly know the topic of her musings, for all his bizarre abilities and talents Erik was no mind-reader but his diverted smirk said otherwise.

"Yes, my stomach has almost settled." was her prim retort; she picked at a speck of lint on her sleeve.

"Good, though you should have another cup before bed should you wish to avoid a potential relapse. There is a pot in the parlor and some bread as well, I'll not force you to eat but it will help."

"Thank you." He held up his hand.

"It was the least I could do, your well-being is my responsibility." Christine's mouth pursed into a dour line at his phrasing, the flame of giddiness that had arisen within snuffed out. She had believed his regard for her transcended duty by now, or rather, hoped it had. Clearly a mistake on her behalf. Still, she endeavored not to let her disappointment show. After all he _had_ gone out of his way to provide aid and for that she was appreciative - even if it wasn't rooted in passion.

Again she thanked him, the words wooden.

"There is one last thing," Without giving her opportunity to contemplate the cryptic statement, Erik produced a novel from behind his back with a flourish. It was immediately recognizable.

"Mrs Lombaard's book..." she gasped, "But, _how—_ "

"Andries gave it to me the night we departed, he wanted you to have it but knew you'd refuse." The grin broke out before she could contain it, deference tickling her insides. Bless the good captain and his endless kindness! She resolved to write him once she was in a fit state.

"Oh, he shouldn't have..." Erik shrugged.

"He was of a mind that books should be read not left to gather dust, it's an opinion I'm afraid I share. Shall I continue where you left off?"

"Here?! In the _bathroom_? No, the parlor is far more appropriate." She went to stand but moved too fast, the entire room lurched; she fumbled for a steady surface and found his arm. Before she was afforded a chance to process this development a paroxysm ripped through her gut and she doubled over the toilet gagging. It turned out to be a false alarm. Blessedly she was spared the further indignity of an 'I told you so'.

"Maybe the bathroom _is_ the best place presently..." Christine mumbled attempting to catch her whirling head. She fell back onto her bottom with an undignified thump. "I understand if you'd like to go."

He fixed her with a steadfast stare. "I have no intention of leaving."

Argument at a close he sank down beside her, his legs too long for the awkward space and folded at odd angles. "Now, where were we? Ah, _yes..._ "

 _Yes! he knew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, to win back her love._

And so went the evening, a spectacle peculiar as it was comical, the pair of them crowded in a bathroom while he read to her. The velvet melody of his voice cosseted her as she sipped her tea and nibbled some bread. He continued until her sleep-heavy head fell against his shoulder. Gently, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to their shared bedroom.

"Will you come to bed with me?" The query left her lips even before he set her down on one of the two beds. He obliged wordlessly, shifting to make room for her - these beds were quite a bit smaller than the one at the inn. Christine nestled at his side like a puppy and sucked in a lungful of his heady scent. She was glad she'd had the foresight to don her nightgown but worried about him, save his shoes, jacket, and waistcoat he was fully clothed.

"Would you prefer to change into your bed clothes?"

"I'm fine."

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"How can you do it? How do you cope with the stares?" Christine blurted, not meaning to speak aloud. A moment passed before his carefully modulated reply.

"There are certain times when I enjoy them, though they are few and far between—instances where I derive perverse satisfaction from their discomfort, from the shattering of their normality—and others where I wish to pluck out the eyes that gawk and cut the tongues from their laughing mouths. Sometimes I am filled with such a rage that my fingers twitch longing to wrap about their throats and the thirst for annihilation flows through my veins." Erik paused on a pensive hum, "You grow accustomed to it."

"I could never..."

Rather than see she felt the weight of his gaze then, boring into the top of her head. "Yes, you could. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, little princess."

"T-Thank you,"

"Why are you thanking me?"

"Well, _for—_ " she began, frowning, unsure herself. Why _was_ she thanking him?

"I only spoke the truth." His words soaked through to her heart, filling her chest with a warm sensation; she beamed like an idiot - darkness thankfully the lone witness.

"After all, young Daaé, you _were_ brave enough to brain and truss me when first we met." Her grin deepened, a chuckle on its heels. "Now get some rest, you've had a trying evening."

His hypnotic command brooked compliance and she willingly relaxed, fatigue crept into her every limb. Sleep took Christine quickly - small wonder given the day she'd had. Erik lay awake for some time afterwards.

He felt bereft of the companionship for the barest instant but understood it was for the best. The silence and stillness afforded him a reprieve, a chance to pretend he was anywhere else. He almost laughed to acknowledge that it had come to this. _Pathetic_ , sounded a voice in his brain. Pathetic, indeed, but necessary.

For if he gave himself over to his desires, then God help him...

Funny that she should seek the shelter of his arms when in reality she'd be safer slumbering in a lion's den. She was ignorant of the fact and the danger she innocently courted; she hadn't any idea of the hunger devouring all reason and sanity. Nor would she ever. He attempted to cultivate distance—a farcical notion with her practically draped atop him—from the things he wished to do to her, from the places he longed to kiss and touch - now within tantalizing reach. Her treasures were readily accessible, ripe for the taking. Were his hand to move a foot downward it would be resting upon her hip, from there it was a scant journey to _her..._

Lascivious visions scrolled by like a film reel, explicit in their detail. Suddenly he was atop her, skin-kissing-skin, his mouth at her earlobe, his fingers interlocked with the hands he pinned above her head... Erik could nearly taste the faint tang of perspiration and scented oil adorning her skin; could feel the pebble of her dainty nipple between his tongue and teeth; could hear the lyrical lilt of her pleasure—her legs bent, toes curled, nightgown rucked up—from his place between the ivory pillars of her thighs.

Ah, _Christ—_

He was going mad with yearning. Hapless, he groped for thoughts, images, removed from her.

Eventually he succeeded in wresting control from his rampant, unchecked imagination and forced himself into a place of reflection. Revisiting his past did the trick. Memories were the most effective lust retardant there was. He thought back to that afternoon.

They almost hadn't made it off the island. Had the crippled steamer not arrived precisely when it did, they wouldn't have. Desperate, he put aside discomfort and propositioned one of the ship's officers; the flustered sailor had grudgingly accepted - though, his fluency in German and willingness to pay double likely helped. The whole affair smacked of that first, long-ago time he had gone to sea. He fell asleep on the recollection.

* * *

He was putting a song in his head to paper when there was a sharp rap on the door.

It was the housekeeper, Mrs Dobson.

Over the years he had meticulously catalogued every servant's knock, pairing each with a purpose: the maids to clean or stoke the fires; the nanny to dress him; the tutor to begin his lessons; his mother to read or play. Predictability was one of humanity's most common threads and one that Erik exploited to his benefit - he quickly learnt whether to answer or slip out his window before the second knock.

The housekeeper's presence meant only one thing, and _it_ was his least favorite. He fleetingly considered escape but knew it would be moot, running in this case would be futile.

" _Come,_ " he growled through clenched teeth, at once lamenting his rudeness, Erik had no quarrel with the woman but rather _who_ sent her.

"Master Erik, his Lordship would like a word with you; he wanted me to relay that it is an urgent matter and he is not to be kept waiting."

 _But, of course..._

—the preeminent Lord Chiltern could never be expected to wait, especially for the son he despised, the disgrace to face and name.

Erik pushed his chair away from the desk, the indignant shriek of wood-dragging-against-wood music to his ears, and stood to face Mrs Dobson; her dark, crinkled eyes radiated sympathy. She had always been fond of him. Where the other servants were afraid, avoiding him and whispering behind his back, the housekeeper treated him as a grandmother might.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that, dear boy." He loosed a dry, throaty chuckle.

"You may lie to a man bound for the gallows but in his heart he knows he's going to be hanged."

Mrs Dobson tsked under her breath. "Such doom and gloom from one so young! Then, the young master _has_ always had a way with words, perhaps he should become a novelist."

" _Yes_ , and perhaps my father should employ a dog whistle the next time he seeks me, it would spare you the walk."

"His Lordship means well, I'm sure."

"No, he doesn't - not where I am concerned, _never_ where I am concerned." The words were not those of the cocky young master, but belonged to the vulnerable boy within, the boy who would never earn a father's love. Mrs Dobson said nothing, the look she gave him was all the confirmation required - had he required any at all.

The journey downstairs was a quick one, he was eager to have the unpleasant task done with so he could finish composing in peace; Erik did not knock, entering the study without pause.

"You summoned me, _father_?" he asked, placing emphasis on the title he had come to detest.

Irises reminiscent of an iced-over pond coldly surveyed him, their disapproval unconcealed. Erik was not bothered by this blatant hostility - he had grown used to that in childhood - but rather was unnerved to see such venom directed from eyes identical to his own.

 _Almost_ like gazing into the looking glass.

Lord Chiltern was an insufferably vain man, he abhorred discrepancies of any kind, regarding ugliness or infirmity among the deadly sins. Here was the man who had ordered the servants to withhold food from his pregnant wife so she did not become, 'sloppy and round'. To him appearance was the sum total of one's worth.

There was no greater eulogy to his pride than a son born in his image and no greater indignity than disfigurement. Erik was execrated the moment his father had laid eyes on him; his mother made a valiant effort to hide it, conjuring excuses on her husband's behalf.

Mephistopheles was more deserving of his saintly mother than Edward Grey had ever been.

 _Oh, darling, he_ does _love you in his way, he's just unused to showing affection._

Indeed, as a child he _had_ wondered whether the Earl's opinion would have been altered had he resembled his mother. However, with time he had ceased to care and grew to loathe the man who sired him with equal fervor.

...truly his father's son.

"I did, _yes_ , although it appears I did not summon the respect I'm owed as Lord and Master of this estate."

"If slavish loyalty is what you expect maybe you would be better suited with a spaniel."

"A dog would certainly prove more easily dealt with - an abnormal pup can be drowned without a second thought, a _child_ , however..." Lord Chiltern's mouth settled into a wicked leer. Erik just shrugged; these barbs no longer fazed, he had been long-since accustomed to hearing nothing but from the lips of the man whom should have been his beau ideal.

"What is it you require of me?"

"As I hope you are by now aware there is _nothing_ more paramount to a man of position than his legacy. Titles and the estates that accompany them are passed from father to son therefore security of the line is imperative; the Grey family, _my_ family, stretches back to the first Tudor King - which was whom?"

"Henry VII."

"When did he reign?"

"He ruled from fourteen hundred eighty-five to fifteen hundred and nine and succeeded Richard III of the House of York, the last of the Plantagenet dynasty."

"How did a Welshman, foreign as the first Plantagenet kings and with no obvious royal connection become King of England?"

"His claim was cognatic, it came through his mother; Lady Margaret Beaufort was the great-granddaughter of the Plantagenet King Edward III through his fourth son, John of Gaunt, first Duke of Lancaster and his mistress-turned-wife, Katherine Swynford. However, Henry VII did declare himself king by right of conquest and was the last king to win his throne in battle."

"Correct, boy. Henry VII descended from a bastard's line, legitimized by King Richard II and Papal Decree. The imbecile, Richard, was too myopic to see the foolishness in endowing his grasping relations. Luckily his cousin, the future King Henry IV, John of Gaunt's legitimate son, _did_ and added a clause preventing a Beaufort from inheriting the throne." He scoffed. "Thank God the peerage is spared such nonsense or we would have chamber maids of the Earl's third son's cousin's brother queuing up to inherit our fortune, every title could be held in abeyance upon the word of a whore!"

"Pardon, _sir_ ," Erik interjected, his neck prickling with anger, "but if not for Henry Tudor's victory at the Battle of Bosworth and a bastard becoming king the Greys would not have been granted a peerage."

"Our family's prestige would have lent itself to a title regardless of dynasty. Do you know how long there has been an Earl of Chiltern?"

"Three hundred and nighty-eight years this October."

For a moment the steely smugness etched onto the man's face might have been mistaken for impression, but he knew better. Hatred ran deeper than awe.

"You are correct. Admittedly, intellect is not amongst your numerous ... _deficiencies_. Do you know what is needed to perpetuate an ancient bloodline and keep it extant in the centuries to come?"

"English peerage practices agnatic succession; the title can pass only to heirs-male by law, thus the birth of sons is required as women are excluded from inheritance. If there is no male issue nor agnates of which to speak the title and estate revert to the Crown, but not in Scotland..."

"What was that, boy?"

"In Scots law a female can inherit, had uncle not been born mother would have been a Countess in her own right. Since he will never marry I am his vested remainder, heir to Holborn Castle and the Earldom of Thurso through his sister, a _woman_."

" _Yes_ ," his father sneered, "and bastards are legitimized _ex post facto_ if their parents later marry by the same 'laws'. And, do not speak to me of your filthy degenerate uncle! Were he in any civilized part of the world instead of that wild, barbarous country he would have hanged for his proclivities long ago. Now, tell me, what must an _Englishman_ do to ensure the continuation of his line?"

"He must produce legitimate male heirs." Erik recited dully.

" _Precisely!_ A man must have multiple capable, robust male heirs of sound body and mind to maintain his dynasty. I have two sons—a secure lineage by all appearances—however, your brother is a sickly boy and _you..._ "

"... am an aberration?" he finished with helpful derision, "Yes, father, I see your dilemma. What grief must plague you having to choose between frailty and deformation!"

"Quite so... Although, I daresay given your mother's family it should come as no surprise that the pups took after the bitch." Erik's hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails leaving crescent-shaped wounds in the flesh; his eyes burnt with sheer hatred. "Which, is why I've decided to remarry in the hopes that I may yet be blessed with worthy heirs."

Apathy shattered with the remark, creating an outflow for the ensuing rush of rage. He was well-aware the Earl was cruel and self-serving but this went beyond.

"HOW _DARE_ YOU?! Mother, _your_ late wife of fourteen years, _mother_ , the woman who gave you two sons and died birthing a third, is barely cold in the ground! You weren't even possessed of the decency to be by her side when she needed you most! No, you were at the card table or in the arms of your perfumed French whore while the life drained from her body. She would have done anything for you, father, Lord knows why, and _THIS_ is how you honor her memory?! It is not _I_ who disgraces the name of Grey!"

Erik was leaning over his father's desk, knuckles white and trembling with the burden of his full weight, tears poured down his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to lash out and strike the haughty, humorless face that his own (nearly) perfectly mirrored.

"YOU _WILL_ HOLD YOUR IMPUDENT TONGUE, BOY! I will not be addressed in such a manner!" His father rose to stand toe-to-toe with him, the desk acting barrier between them.

"And, _if_ I do not?" The Earl laughed then, a sound almost as black as his soul.

"Your mother is no longer here to protect you, Erik. You've no champion, thus it would be in your best interest to do as you are instructed and show deference."

"You will have neither that nor my approval of your designs to remarry."

"I do not require the approval of a worthless offshoot. Did you honestly believe I'd allow a meeting? My God, you would cause any woman to catch the vapors and flee once she regained her sense. No, I've found you a place at a school in Cornwall - not an easy feat given your record. However, these indiscretions can be easily enough overlooked by the wealth and prestige afforded by an ancient name. I've already made the necessary arrangements for you to spend any holidays with your uncle in Scotland; you depart within the month."

"No."

" _What_ did you say?"

" _No_ , father, as in I _refuse_." Blue-grey eyes narrowed, "Once I'd have given anything to escape you but that was the whim of an angry child and would only serve to please you. I choose to stay at Ley Hall, your misery will prove the sweeter reward; _nothing_ would make me happier than to haunt both you and your pretty new pet for an eternity. And, on the day you draw your last breath I will remind you that I _am_ your son, your eldest son and heir; I _will_ stand by your death-bed alongside the Devil and remind you that I will continue the Grey family lineage and it shall be me, Erik Grey, who erases all memory of the sixteenth Earl of Chiltern."

"You know," his father hissed darkly, "I am often torn between wishing your mother had been killed when she fell from the horse and lamenting that she did not strike the tree harder. If had been the former, I'd have been spared the shame of two ill-bred sons and had it been the latter, mayhap you would have died; I wanted you to die - did you know that? During the days and months after your birth I prayed for God to take you. I couldn't dispense with you as my legacy so I hoped you would catch pox or whooping cough - so many afflictions are fatal to infants. I prayed but my pleas were not answered. You grew, strong and healthy but for the monstrosity that is your face, and I was forced to acknowledge you as my heir for I had no proof you were not mine. I dreamt of that too, of writing you off as a bastard with no due, of banishing both you and your mother to her wretched family in Scotland. Yet now that she is deceased, now that you are not a child anymore, there are new opportunities available to me. You threaten to blot my contributions, I can _promise_ to obliterate your very existence. I have ever considered myself a shrewd and fair man of business so I offer you two choices: an education and allowance or a place in a gypsy carnival. Those foul miscreants and thieves are constantly searching for whatever attraction might fill their coffers and fuel their debauched lifestyle and I daresay you would draw quite the crowd, Erik; your potential value will not elude even their feeble grasp. How much would they pay in gold or horses for the Devil's child, the living corpse, I wonder. Come now, boy, you have a keen mind for sums, what do _you_ think?"

In the end he had boarded the train to Cornwall. What other option did he have? But, it was staring out the window at the scenery of rollicking hills, cliffs and sea that he decided. It was time he made his own way, forged his own destiny. Lord Edward Grey would _not_ be the arbitrator of his fate. He would take to the water, leave Ley Hall behind for good, become a ghost.

One day he would have his ultimate revenge; he would return for what was his by law.

One day the errant prince would come home and rule his rightful kingdom if only to spite the wicked king.

He made his way to the docks that evening, navigating the bustle of nighttime fishing boats until he found a merchant vessel.

"I'm looking for passage,"

"We're bound for the Indian Colony and Orient, best try yer luck elsewhere, boy." murmured the shabby mariner, his eyes never leaving the manifest he held; he turned and stalked off. Erik bounded after him.

"I don't mind! In fact, the farther from England, the better." The seaman had stopped then, his gaze lingered on the mask.

"You wanted by the law, boy? Is that what yer running from? Don' want none of that on my ship."

"I'm not a criminal. My face ... it was marred at birth." His voice dropped, partially in humiliation, partially in weariness, "I— I can't stand the stares. Please, sir, there's nothing left for me here. This place, it reminds me of my mother. I want to travel, want to forget. I can work as a deckhand or in any capacity you need." He blinked back the tears and squared his shoulders.

"Yer mum... is she dead?"

Erik nodded, an expansive lump had overtaken his throat.

"How old are you, boy?"

"Thirteen."

"Tall for yer age... You got a name?"

"Erik."

"Erik...?"

"Just Erik, sir."

"Righ' then... you ever sailed before, Erik?"

"No, sir, but I'm a quick study. I wouldn't need wages; I wouldn't even need a bunk!"

"You'll have both. Ev'ry man aboard my ship does honest work for honest pay, you'll be no exception. We'll not be returning to England for some time. You think long and hard on that, boy - it's not a choice made lightly. I'll be casting off at firs' light if you still want to join my crew, young Erik."

Come dawn he was watching the Cornish coast fade into the orange light. He turned away without a backward glance fixating on the endless blue ahead, on the next chapter of his life. The sea was his future now, his past no more than a collection of dust and ghosts.

* * *

 **Well, I got them in bed together. ;)**

 **A/N: Again, not my favorite chapter to write - although, I did enjoy penning the ending bit. Fingers crossed it's not too terrible or boring. Regardless, let me know what you thought please! Now onto the tedious footnotes...**

 ***I checked records of the 1902 Atlantic Hurricane season and it was a mild one, there were no storms that formed in May of that year; the season technically begins June 1st but storms can occur earlier. No, the storm won't pose any threat to our characters (here's looking at you Child of Dreams) it was just intended as a minor plot device.**

 *** _Jovis ales_ refers to an eagle, a common symbol in Ancient Rome. Augurs were Roman priests who studied and interpreted signs based on the flight patterns of birds. To oversimplify, if a bird flew from a certain direction it was considered either a positive or negative omen depending. I believe I made the correct translation regarding the eagle's direction of flight (it varies based on the different bird species) but if I haven't please correct me, my Latin is a bit rusty. **

***Norddeutscher Lloyd or NDL was a German shipping company specializing in luxury transatlantic travel. It was a rival to the more well-known Cunard and White Star Lines. I chose NDL because they had routes to Galveston and New Orleans during the early 20th century - I had to select a route that would place the ship within proximity to the Virgin Islands. I did take a bit of artistic license with this as most of these were basic mail routes and I glammed it up a bit; I also decided on New Orleans over Galveston because the former was a wealthier and more well-known city at the time. I based the ship in question off S.S. _Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse_ with some bits from the yet-to-be-built S.S. _Lusitania_ (SMU has a great flickr archive of ship interior photos if you're interested).**

 ***The novel in question is none other thanthat copy of _North and South_ Christine had been reading. I thought that particular excerpt appropriate.**


	27. The last dying blow to native innocence

**A/N: So, as previously mentioned this chapter was a delight. First, Christine gets to hang out with other women and second we get to see a different side of Erik. I think I kept it fairly consistent with his character.**

 **Also, if I may turn your attention to the rating... this chapter deserves it,** ** _heavily_** **. There is a smutty excerpt (not written by me), feel free to skim over the block of italicized text if you don't wish to read it. The gist of it is crucial to the chapter but the text itself is not; I included it to give you guys an idea of what's going through Christine's head.**

 **As always, thank you for the reviews - I will concede I expected more but water under the bridge. :)**

* * *

 **13 May - At Sea**

Breakfast that morning was served with a surprise, a calling card and accompanying invitation for tea. Christine regarded each with supercilious disdain as one might a particularly fat insect and dumped a spoonful of sugar into her porridge. They lay forgotten as she devoured her meal, the food nothing short of wondrous after a night of emesis. Erik entered the dining room as she was packing some toast into a mouth already laden with egg; his lip quirked but he stayed silent. She continued to eat choosing to not acknowledge him, she couldn't care less about his opinion on her table manners.

"It seems you are in popular demand this morning." he remarked casually, taking a piece of toast from the tray.

"I have no idea who sent that or what they could possibly want with me."

"A Mrs Evelina Robichaux wishes to cordially invite you to afternoon tea to be taken in her suite at—"

"Yes," she snapped, "I _can_ read."

"Are you going to attend?"

"Why on earth would I?"

"It would be polite, for one." At this she snorted. The master of rudeness and scowls lecturing her on decorum? Ha!

"I wasn't aware you were intimately familiar with the concept of politeness..."

"Oh, I am incredibly familiar - I had a gentleman's upbringing after all. Whether I choose to adhere to the convention is a separate matter entirely."

"You truly believe I should go?" He shrugged.

"It might do you some good to enjoy company of your own sex."

"Yes, because I am such a proper little lady with all my gossip and frocks..." Christine threw her napkin onto the table, glowering at her empty plate. The conversation, though irritating, was not solely responsible for her temper.

Although she had awoken refreshed, she had awoken alone. How he had managed to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs without her stirring she couldn't fathom but once more he had eluded her. It put her in a foul mood. Compounding upon that her entire torso ached as if she'd been in a prize ring.

"A change of scenery might suit you well after last night. _Besides_ ," he added, now perusing the newspaper, "when you return we can have a laugh at how dreadfully American they are."

"How do you know Mrs Robichaux is American?" A scoff issued from behind the wall of print.

"Who else would serve tea at one o'clock?"

"Fine, if you are insistent upon it, I'll go."

"It's not my concern one way or another, I simply suggested that the companionship might benefit you. Stay, if you'd prefer."

"No, I will go _but_ I'd ask something of you in return."

His eyes were dappled with wry amusement, beneath the mask a brow was raised, "And, what request would the little princess make of me?"

"I want to dine in the ship's saloon tonight."

Here was her last-ditch effort to regain the upperhand - ultimately a front, but he needn't know that. It backfired spectacularly. He met her gaze, a smirk etched upon the proud mouth, and turned the page.

"Very well."

A straightforward reply, his voice rang with the hauteur of triumph; it was insufferable. She left the room in a huff.

 **o o o**

The hour after luncheon saw her padding down the corridor towards Mrs Robichaux's cabin. As she walked she mulled over the things she would rather be doing with each sullen step, things like reading, writing a letter to captain Lombaard, sketching flora, _reading_... A handful of chapters separated her from the finale of _North and South_ and the antics of the plucky Miss Hale were certainly preferable to whatever tedious affair lay ahead.

But, still she forged onward.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, the gauntlet had been thrown and he had accepted her challenge. If she turned back she couldn't face him, if she turned back it would be in shame and she'd be damned if she let him emerge victorious. She should have kept her mouth shut. Really, it was her own fault for being fool enough to think she could beat him at his own game. Not only was she an unwilling guest to tea but now there was the matter of dinner as well. Dining amongst the gawking throngs from yesterday - what the devil had possessed her to even make the suggestion?

And, furthermore, why the devil had he even agreed?

It was not supposed to unfold like this, with his assent. He was _supposed_ to refuse and in doing so let her off the hook too. Perhaps, one day in future she would learn the prudence of holding her troublesome tongue.

Lord, she would much rather be reading...

She stared glumly at the door, inside she could hear giggling. Her lip curled involuntarily at the sound. Sucking in a dramatic breath she knocked. It was opened with such haste that she barely had time to wipe the scowl from her face.

"A Mrs Stoke for tea," announced the maid, ushering her into a parlor almost identical to her own. Three ladies, none much older than she, sat at attention, poised and pristine bedecked in the airy colors of spring. One stood - the hostess, Mrs Robichaux, she surmised - her dark hair set off high cheekbones and elegant black eyes rimmed with thick lashes; she was taller than Christine.

"Welcome dear!" Effused the exotic beauty, her accent odd and discordant. "You're right on time, the tea has just been laid out."

 _American as apple pie_ , Erik had been correct; she bit her cheek to stifle a laugh.

Mrs Robichaux waved the waiting maid off impatiently, turning back to her. "Let us make introductions, shall we? I'm Mrs Evelina Robichaux as you know." She gestured to a girl with similarly swarthy features, "This is my sister Mrs Adeline Rillieux, and this is Mrs Lavinia Cunningham."

"Charmed," said Lavinia taking her hand, there was a soft drawl to her speech Christine found pleasant - similar to that of her hostess but more muted.

"Please, call me Christine."

"Then you must call me Evelina. Thank heavens you've come, Christine! Sorry if my invitation was too forward but everybody aboard this ship is so old and stodgy—"

"And _foreign_..." chimed her sister.

"Yes, Adeline, _quite._ This trip has been so humdrum. When we saw you and the Captain board, well, we were frankly glad to have someone near us in age. We had hoped to see you at dinner last night..."

"I was ill." Evelina made a sympathetic hum.

"How terrible! Isn't it, Adeline?" Adeline nodded on cue. "Of course, the two of us had headaches last night - maybe there is some ailment going around? Perhaps the weather was to blame?"

A few more minutes of generalized discourse ensued before a sheepish Adeline extracted something from beneath a pillow; her dark eyes sparkled with the mischief of a child clutching a stolen sweet. A hush fell over the klatch of ladies.

"Shall we begin where we left off?"

Adeline giggled; Evelina practically cried her affirmation. Even the prim Lavinia wore a naughty smirk upon her round face. As for herself, Christine was flooded with an amalgamate of curious anxiety. The object was flat and thin - a book, it appeared. She wondered what mysteries it must contain within its covers to elicit such a response. A witch's tome, mayhap, or a manual on the occult. It looked innocuous enough whatever it was.

" _Fanny Hill_ ," Mrs Robichaux whispered conspiratorially. "Have you read it, Christine?"

She shook her head, she had never heard of a work by that name. Strange, that. The literary works that escaped her fervent, bookworm's grasp were few and far between. Maybe it was one of those sickening stories of romance she so loathed. Yes, that was likely it given the group in question. For all of their kindness they did not strike her as scholarly. In fact, from what she had thus-far ascertained one was more likely to find Raoul's Pointer, Purdey raiding the library.

"It's rather shocking but we are all married women, aren't we?" A positively wicked expression lit Evelina's features.

"It was outlawed in Massachusetts, you know, and the publisher was charged for printing pornographic material." Adeline added at a whisper.

Oh, so it was a bawdy novel. Christine relaxed somewhat, her giddiness deflating. Really, she had anticipated something more thrilling. She had read _The Monk_ , besides, and she doubted this _Fanny Hill_ could be much more scurrilous than Lewis' masterpiece of Gothic fiction.

How wrong she was...

It began uneventfully - she wasn't paying much attention to be honest - some drivel about _ardent desires_ and _ungovernable longings_ amongst other rubbish; she was hit with a twin urge to both scoff and gag. Christine could not say for sure where it all started to go wrong, just that the decline was rapid, one moment the virginal narrator recounted her emotions and the _next—_

 _In the meantime, his red-headed champion, that had so lately fled the pit, quelled and abashed, was now recovered to the top of his condition, perked and crested up between Polly's thighs, who was not wanting, on her part, to coax and keep it in good humour, stroking it, with her head down, and receiving even its velvet tip between the lips of not its proper mouth: whether it was to render it more glib and easy of entrance, I could not tell; but it had such an effect, that the young gentleman seemed by his eyes, that sparkled with more excited lustre, and his inflamed countenance, to receive increase of pleasure._

The tea cup fell from her hand bouncing across the plush rug. Three sets of eyes trained onto Christine and her flaming face, the pulse thumping in her ears made it impossible to hear. If she hadn't already plummeted through the ground she certainly wished to.

"I— I'm so sorry, it s-slipped."

Could she really be blamed for the brilliant crimson glow of her cheeks? She had just learnt more about the act of love in one afternoon, from one passage, than she had in her entire life! Drat! Why did the ability to turn invisible have to be fiction? She swore then that if embarrassment did not strike her down on the spot she would devote her life to the science needed to harness this power. Her face flaming like a beacon it was too much to hope her mortification would go unremarked.

"Oh, look at Mrs Stoke blushing like a virgin!" Adeline squealed with girlish mirth. Lavinia looked mildly concerned.

"You look positively scandalized, Christine." It was Evelina who spoke next.

"Come now, darling, you're a married woman. Surely you and the Captain have..."

Christine's blush deepened were it possible, at this rate she was sure to conjure a new color altogether.

Had she just been asked if she and Erik had ever...

—done _that_?

These were supposed to be ladies of fine breeding! Why were they discussing such subjects? Shouldn't they be tittering about charities, dances, and water colors?

"Oh, yes, of c-course, I've just never..." she took a deep breath, lying through her teeth, "seen it written about before."

"Never?" Lavinia gasped in disbelief, "Don't they read such novels in England?"

"I am sure these _works_ do exist. I've not thought to seek them out, though, the Captain and I being so lately married."

Evidently that was the wrong thing to say for the questions turned personal. Hysterical, she wished for a meteorite to come crashing through the wall so that she might escape from the conversation.

"And, do you find marriage _agreeable_?"

"Well, yes, I suppose - it _is_ quite a change."

"Oh, there's no denying that!" agreed Adeline, "I nearly fainted on my wedding night, I was as scared as a little mouse but Pierre was ever-so gentle." Her sister giggled.

"My Henri was so excitable he could hardly control himself, ravished me like one of our stallions after a mare. Admittedly I lived in fright of the act for months but soon I learnt of the fun to be had, like nothing I could have ever imagined. Now I crave it like a wanton." She laughed again.

"And, what of your Captain, my dear? Forgive my uncouthness but he has that aura about him, that sensuous allure, you seem to me a lucky woman in your choice of husband." There was a raw suggestiveness in her eye as she talked. Christine was positive she was close to fainting, Evelina's words fell like muffled footsteps in a wood. She sputtered a bit, worrying her lip, chewing at the inside of her cheek. The trio stared at her and she knew she had to respond; heat prickled under her skin.

"Oh, yes, he is very ah, _attentive_... He has the hands of a musician." She blinked, dazed, unsure why she added the last.

A chorus of giggles surged up around her.

"I find I am jealous of your fortunes, Christine; Henri has such blunt, clumsy fingers but more than makes up for that in _other_ regards. Shall we continue?"

She managed a nod, just barely. What else could she do? Though indeed fazed Christine had also—to her chagrin—grown rather curious. There was nothing harmful in curiosity, she mused not quite believing herself. Besides, it was not as if she was a complete innocent; she had certainly been kissed and she had straddled him, felt his touch, nearly begged for more. Her thoughts meandered back to their final night aboard another ship.

Back to the hot, seeking lips against her own, covering her exposed flesh in a wallpaper of kisses; back to those lovely wandering hands of his—the very same she had made unsolicited mention of; back to the feel of him pressing into that most intimate part of her, the place of pleasure so flippantly described in the novel Evelina currently read aloud.

And she found she wished that encounter had not been their last.

Oh, to _feel_ him again...

This time she hoped his wonderous touch and lips would venture farther, to touch and kiss every inch of her body. If she closed her eyes she could almost feel his hand cupping her breast, the caress firm yet delicate, the weighted heat of its mate resting upon her thigh. This time she hoped it would quest higher, find that spot that ached and throbbed for him. Oh, _yes_ , for him, _only_ for him - he was the first and only man she had ever desired. Christine did not know whether to be incensed with the acknowledgment or unburdened by the confession at last born into the world.

It was too easy to imagine those nimble fingers stroking her, slipping inside that newly-discovered channel at her center...

Appalled, she shook her head to rid it of such poisonous notions. It half-worked; she sat there in bothered reticence until tea was concluded - the flush never did leave her face.

Before she fled - and, yes, that was the only fitting description for what she planned to do as soon as she left the cabin - Evelina called out to her.

"I am sorry if tea was not what you were expecting but I do hope you've learnt something useful."

"Useful?" Christine repeated dumbly. Useful was not the word she'd have selected, _licentious_ was far better.

"I get the sense you are still very much an innocent, Christine—not that there is anything wrong in that, I was much the same. This book helped me shed my inhibitions and make the act of love more enjoyable for both me and my cherished Henri. Perhaps it could do the same for you and the Captain?"

"I'm sorry but I do not understand..."

Evelina laughed, that light bell-like tinkle. "I am giving you the book, darling, so that you may use it as I did as an encyclopedia of sorts."

"Oh, I— I don't quite know what to say..." That much was at least undoubtedly true. "Thank you."

"You are welcome, dear Christine. Trust what I've told you about it." She nodded awkwardly, her voice failing. The novel found its way into her clenched hand.

"Can we expect you at our table for dinner?" Lavinia asked.

"Oh, yes, I do hope you'll join us tonight!" Adelina piped up. Christine's face fell.

Damnation! How could she have forgotten her earlier deal? A deal with the Devil himself it seemed, it was definitely coming back to haunt her. She forced a smile.

"Of course."

Exiting the den of sin she made it halfway down the hall before she stopped short. The novel dug into her from its hiding place beneath her bodice, begged to be noticed as that part of him had... She clutched her chest to steady her breathing. There was no way she could return to her cabin, to him, like this.

She made her way towards the promenade deck at a deliberate clip. Outside the weather clung fast to the coattails of the tropical storm, the low clouds petulant. Rain fell in a steady patter, an occasional errant gust driving it sideways in stinging sheets. To anyone else it was misery realized but to her it was the perfect environment to scour the perversions from her head.

"Ma'am?" The crewman stationed by the door studied her in question. No doubt he believed her either lost or mad. She did not care either way, hang his opinion.

"Yes? Is there a problem?"

"The weather, ma'am, it's..." His English was thick and garbled, heavily German.

"Raining? _Yes_ , I can see as much but I am in desperate need of fresh air." A pause in which his eyes darted about before he opened the door. Oh, he assuredly thought her barmy.

Mayhap his assessment was not so far off. Christine was not remotely prepared for a stroll through the elements, she had not umbrella or cloak to shield her. However, that was inconsequential - clothes could be dried and a hot bath would chase away any lingering chill. No, she _needed_ this like her corrupt body and mind coursed with need for him. With a sigh she stepped out into the world of water and wind unaware that her day had been doomed from the start.

Mortification, it appeared, was not yet done with Christine Daaé.

It was on this afternoon, upon returning from her rendezvous, that she learned the bathroom lock was broken. Naturally, in light of the path her morning had taken, this was for her to discover in the most conceivably humiliating manner possible. Later she would muse over whether the day's events were the result of some supernatural mischief, the product of faeries or so-called 'green-people' of countryside lore, a joke played at the expense of the innocent. As it was Christine, being of a scientific mind, was not inclined to superstition but sometimes, on the infrequent occasion, logic failed to account for a situation.

Today was one such occasion.

When she entered their cabin it was as a wet, sticky mess. In addition to turning droplets of rain into a volley of arrows the wind had also whipped the sea into a fine mist.

Of all the things she loved about the ocean sea spray was decidedly at the bottom of the list. Tacky and pervasive, it adhered to every surface with which it came into contact: hair, clothes, hats, skin, coating them all with a stinging, salty film reminiscent of starch. At least the wind, damp and drizzle had doused the flames beneath her skin. Remembering the impetus behind her sojourn she hastily stashed the manual of sin at the bottom of her trunk and slammed the lid shut. She stared at it for a short while waiting, half-anticipating it to thump like a heart shoved beneath the floorboards, evidence of her fall from grace. Christine exhaled gratefulness when it remained stationary.

That done, she turned her attention to her irritated flesh, now burning for an entirely different reason.

Eager to wash it away she threw open the bathroom door, the faulty lock's lone protest a pitiful metallic scrape, so faint she missed it. Maybe if she had exercised a modicum of caution before rushing in... Alas, it was too late, she was already in the room, already poised to endure what was sure to be her most embarrassing moment for years to come.

There was a loud slosh accompanied by a flash of movement in her periphery; she didn't dare acknowledge it until she had no choice. That sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach already recognized what _it_ was, as did the smoulder of her earlobes; both forced her to look, although it could have just as easily been the acid curiosity eating a hole inside of her. A wicked thing curiosity was. When, at last, she did look _he_ filled her vision; Erik stood there covering himself with a towel—a too-small towel if she was being honest, there was little chance of it wrapping round his waist even _if_ he'd been possessed of the decency to shield himself more thoroughly.

Silence reigned. The only sound to be heard was the water dripping off his body into the tub below.

 _Plink, plink, plink._

"Young Daaé," he greeted, the sort of crooked grin that accompanied over-indulgence plastered on his shameless face.

He had been drinking...

If he was drunk it certainly explained why he still wore the mask despite being otherwise naked as the day he was born.

And, why he so boldly showed off his physique without a hint of modesty.

It was uncharacteristic of him, yet at the same time, a perfect homage to his brazen conceit.

It was an established fact that he delighted in unnerving her.

—and she was most entirely unnerved, speechless and stupefied. And shaking.

Christine froze, wide-eyed, her person threatening to incinerate on the spot; she was convinced she'd burn up into nothing, a neat pile of ash on the tile the only evidence of her having ever existed. God, why was she always leaping before she looked? This situation could have entirely been avoided with a thoughtful knock. She would be her own demise, not Erik, not anyone else; and speaking of the former...

Her traitorous, wanton gaze kept returning to him, to his nearly-naked body so crudely on display. Though, she _did_ wage an impressive battle to avert it. Hysterically she wondered if he too had been enraptured the time he glimpsed her in the river; she also wondered if he had thought her form similarly beautiful.

 _Perhaps_ that was a poor word for it.

Could men be beautiful the same as women?

She didn't know the answer to that query but could say without a doubt that she regarded him so.

Really, beautiful seemed the only fitting descriptor for the lean and artfully chiseled lines of muscle.

 _...beautiful_ , yes.

Twice she'd seen him without a shirt: a brief glance of his back that first night and a peek at his front when she tended his wound. Neither time proved adequate, both in dim light and revealed when her eyes weren't allowed to loiter owing to her supposedly being Christopher and all. As Christine she had fleetingly felt it, gleaned an impression of the coiled strength beneath his clothing. Yes, within the realm of imagination she had filled in details. Within the inner vault of her mind there was a portrait of him as he was at present.

But, all previous information fell pathetically short of what she saw now.

The conjured picture was laughable as if she had tried to capture it with her own inadequate hand.

She had known nothing, she had been a blind man attempting to draw a sunset.

Indeed, it was like he had been carved from the finest marble and sculpted by Michelangelo. He bore an unsettling resemblance to the statue _David_ , stone made flesh with the aid of Pygmalion. The other men in her acquaintance would pale in comparison, flawed mortals in the shadow of a god. Erik was tall and lithe where Raoul was shorter and broader and papa was paunchy; too thin, perhaps, for his height - he could stand to gain weight. His shoulders were broad, though, and his hips narrow; and his muscles, owing to a combination of fitness and slimness, were defined and well-formed. A dusting of dark hair adorned his arms, legs, and chest weighted by water and plastered to skin. Her eyes followed a third patch, this one forming a thin trail below his navel - briefly she glimpsed its terminus when the towel slipped, a crop of hair hovering above his... Christine's skin felt thin and heated, her brain swam.

He was the male figure perfectly contrived and yet there was a potent wildness about him. The way the cloth hung almost indecently between his thighs concealing his masculinity recalled the depictions of natives from far-off places she'd seen in books; with his unabashed air and cheeky smirk he could have been a pale version of one of those islanders or jungle tribesman. She could envisage him likewise attired, spear or bow in hand and some dead animal slung over his sturdy shoulder, its blood running down the grooves of his chest and stomach— Lord, what a macabre image!

What was wrong with her?

Had she taken complete leave of her senses?

And, _yet_...

It was too easy to contrive, the random array of scars scoring his skin like constellations further enhanced the allusion. His back, she knew, was comparably marked. In his make-believe tribe he would be a great warrior and these badges of honor won in battle; the newest addition shone an angry light pink upon his breast. Color rose into her cheeks to note the aberrations crossing his body didn't diminish his appeal. She found she liked him marred, it enhanced his character, made him uniquely _Erik_. Were he as satin smooth as she, Christine wouldn't have been half as captivated.

All right, well, that wasn't true, strictly speaking—

They _did_ add to his aspect nonetheless.

Sable irises followed the meandering track of a water droplet down his thigh, her focus alighting on a rather nasty blemish. A series of gouges—thick and deep—mauve and puckered where the skin had inelegantly tried to knit itself back together encircled his leg just inches above his left knee. The appearance alone made her wince with the perceived pain. Holy Father, the injury must have been excruciating! It looked as though whatever was responsible had attempted to sever the limb and failed. Truly it seemed a miracle he hadn't been permanently crippled.

What on God's green earth could have done that to a man?

What life had he lived to have sustained such a trauma?

" _Oopholis porosus_ ," Erik said in a languid drawl, reading her thoughts. It was the first time either of them had spoken since his initial audacious remark. "Or, as it's more commonly known, the saltwater crocodile and the creature responsible for inflicting the lovely souvenir that has so caught your attention."

His statement was powerful enough to break her stunned quiescence.

"A crocodile?!" she repeated on a stilted exhale of disbelief.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph _how_ \- and more importantly, why - had he gotten close enough to a crocodile's jaws to receive that wound?

If she harbored any doubts he was slightly mad she could dispense with them after learning this.

"Oh, _yes_. A monster too, just a hair under nineteen feet, nearly swallowed my leg as you can see. Perhaps I'll regale you with the harrowing tale when I am in a more proper state. Unless," He was staring at her with those smouldering eyes of contradiction, of fire and ice, the suggestion in them rife, " _of course_ , you'd prefer to join me..."

Erik flashed a roguish smile at her discomfort and the way she stiffened like a deer on alert. For some inexplicable reason she had not fled, not yet, even in spite of the furious mantra of 'run' pounding in her head.

"It will be a tight fit but I am confident it can be managed with a spot of ... _maneuvering_."

This comment proved enough, succeeding where his previous words had failed. Christine practically broke her neck tearing from the spot and slammed the door behind her. She leaned against the wall, heart at a gallop, and was just able to make out a deep chuckle on the heels of a splash over her ragged breathing.

Cad! Devil! Blackguard!

The sheer bold nerve of that man to say such a thing, to make such an implication as if they were no more than a couple of animals in heat! She should have struck him for his impudence, she should have called him out, she should march right back into that room and demand his apology.

She should—she _should_...

Christine exhaled in one long whoosh and put a hand to her forehead, the coolness of the appendage brought a smidgen of relief; she regained a hair of rationality. It was folly to return, a fool could see that. She was no fool—though she was, for the second instance that day, wildly out of her element. If she went back she could not be held accountable for what ensued, not even she was _that_ naïve. His insinuation had struck her steel against flint.

Images from that treatise of filth spread like wildfire through her brain except the amorous party was not the whore Polly and her enthusiastic Italian lover but instead herself and Erik. Lewd visions of him, of them, filled her skull. They acted out line after line of depravity, players faithful to their scripted scene. She shifted more of her weight to the wall, she felt so faint, so small and young, so full of shame - a virgin with the musings of a harlot.

But, beneath that lurked something else entirely, a slumbering creature that had only just begun to awaken and come into itself. Christine was a muddle of rage and whatever novel sensation now possessed her, had _been_ possessing her in Erik's presence since that very first kiss. She could not name it but was nonetheless ashamed to have ever felt it, knowing enough to recognize it as a taboo. Yet, by God, she longed for him.

Holy Father did she yearn to experience every single act spoken of!

... and all with Erik.

Clarity abounded then. Were he to burst into the room and press his unclothed form to her she would not refuse. The next time their kisses soared to an inferno she would not stop him. Sin be damned, she wanted him and, blight to her honor notwithstanding, she would have him before the voyage end.

* * *

 **A/N: John Cleland's _Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure_ , or, _Fanny Hill_ , as it is more commonly referred to is considered the first English pornographic prose. Within two 'letters' to an unknown reader the eponymous Fanny Hill recounts the circumstances leading to her becoming a prostitute, falling in love, heartbreak, and discovering her liberated sensuality. The book was initially published under anonymity because of its content and, as you can imagine, the subject of much scandal in the English-speaking world. The aforementioned bit about Massachusetts bringing charges against a dude who published it there are completely true. **

*** _Oopholis porosus_ is the outdated Latin name for the saltwater crocodile, chiefly a British label from what I have ascertained; the modern taxonomy is _Crocodylus porosus_ , though that was coined at the beginning of the 19th century. I figured since Erik would have been in India in the later years of the 1800s his familiarity with that name made sense.**

 **Now is the bit where I shamelessly beg for reviews... ;)**


	28. Excess of joy would wake me

**A/N: So, I had this chapter and the one before as a single entity and decided to split them. All went swimmingly until I accidentally overwrote the second half of text. I typed as much as I could from memory but the rest had to be rewritten. Sorry it took so long, it's difficult for me to write certain scenes.**

 **Thank you for the reviews, loved seeing your reactions to Christine's day of surprises - and if you guys think the last chapter was hot, just wait. ;)**

 **Things will start progressing fairly rapidly from this point onward - after all these two can only dam their passion for so long. There are only a handful of chapters left before it all blows up and a good amount of steaminess before then.**

* * *

 **13 May - At Sea**

That evening found Erik fumbling with his bow tie in the looking glass whilst simultaneously trying to avoid glancing at his reflection. It was a bizarre dance but he was too drunk to care. The liquor had slowed and rendered normally adept digits into clumsy, bumbling things. Perhaps he should not have indulged. Or, perhaps, it had been too long since he had worn white tie. Yes, that seemed the more reasonable explanation.

When the last time had been he couldn't remember. During an assignment, maybe, the details of where and when eluded him—though, it had to have been a while. War had consumed his life for what felt like a decade, fripperies like balls and dinner parties, the world in which he had been raised, were meaningless in the wilds of Southern Africa. The Transvaal had sucked the life from him with her cruel, dusty maw until he had forgotten nearly every vestige of culture or pleasure; his mind still struggled to process his attire and the prospect of the impending dinner, it still felt part of an extravagant dream.

A dream in which he stumbled through the motions half-convinced he would awaken under a Jackalberry tree, the cosmos reaching outward to embrace him. Brutish and dangerous as it was his life as a soldier was delightfully simplistic, there were certainly no goddamn bow ties to thwart him. Christ, had he regressed to the days of his earliest childhood when he relied on other more dexterous hands to dress him?

For the fifth or sixth time since beginning this fruitless, humiliating endeavor he asked himself why in God's name he had agreed to accompany her to dinner. He hated the crowds and their gawking eyes, their loaded whispers, that same edge of fear to their stances as if they'd been dropped into close quarters with a frightful jungle beast. And, like the mighty leopard or tiger his first instinct was to avoid his fellow man altogether, to watch him warily from a peaceful distance wherein he was accorded the superior advantage. His hands stilled momentarily. Perhaps he could feign illness or some other complaint, it was not too late.

The idea held considerable appeal. Then, perchance by accident, he looked upon himself in the mirror and was for the briefest span transfixed - as is the nature of man and animal alike when confronted with its own reflection. For the first time in what had to be many years he took in the crown of black locks, verging on shaggy even after the trim he had attempted, crudely slicked back; the eyes of indescernible color, light and clear as water in an underground lake; the pale, stern lips as inclined to smirk as they were to scowl; lastly he registered the ebon covering, which, over the decades had become more familiar to him than the skin that lay beneath. He did not lift the mask to steal a glance at the remainder of the proud, neatly-hewn features that might have qualified as handsome but for the horror marring one side, nor had he any wish to. Erik saw only cowardice.

True, he may have more in common with the savage prey he once hunted but Christine did not. She was on another plane, one far above the clutches of monsters and fiends such as himself; she was meant to walk, live and breathe in the light not skulk through Stygian blackness alongside a denizen of the underworld. To sequester such a rare bloom to darkness and solitude was cruelty in the basest sense.

He could do this _for_ her, he could put aside his own selfish whims. For her sake he could and would. Besides, was this not owed to her after the nightmare he had put her through? It was a simple dinner, not a grand affair of the London Season. He could do this, he would be her companion in whatever capacity she demanded. This fierce, little waif was becoming his everything and to his slight chagrin he did not mind. Erik Grey, the formidable hunter, spy and assassin was adrift in the river of love, caught helpless in the swirling eddy that was Miss Christine Daaé; he would follow anywhere she led.

Fresh resolve in his mind and disquiet effectively quashed he resumed his battle with the tie. Erik did not relish the sensation of being made an idiot by a piece of silk but he soldiered on. It was not all unpleasant, however. His learner's pace allowed his mind ample time to wander and immediately his focus went to that afternoon.

 _It will be a tight fit_ , he had said.

 _—but so will you_ , he had thought.

At least he didn't speak that part aloud. Small blessings _were_ blessings all the same. But, the sight of her flushed and dishevelled, the way her lips had parted and irises had darkened, the way her eyes had traversed his body finding appeal in aberration. It was too much. For the second time in mere days he succumbed to his shameful cravings. And, on the subject of blessings thank the Lord for whatever drunken whim had prompted him to leave his mask on. If he had not done—

"Do you need help with that?" The last voice he expected to hear shook him loose from the snarl of his thoughts. Christine stood in the doorway inspecting. What he would give to know what currently stirred within that head of hers!

"I'm managing," he said, unsure what exactly that meant.

" _...poorly_." came the retort.

Well, he supposed he deserved that.

"I am striving for perfection."

"You're making a mess of it. Here, let me."

Her dainty fingers set to task making quick work of whatever knotted abomination his had birthed. She cultivated a careful distance between them, her arms fully extended; her hands were shaking. There was discomfort writ in every line of her face but she put on a brave show and Erik admired her all the more for it.

"You _can_ come closer, little princess. It might even make things easier, I daresay."

"You're drunk."

The lame excuse was furnished like a shield, there was little conviction evident in her assertion. Both knew the real reason she trembled to be close - or had an inkling at the very least. Erik was not so much of a scoundrel that he dare mention it, even to make light of that afternoon's compromising situation. Instead he stayed the course in relatively neutral waters.

"I am quite nearly sober, as a matter of fact." Christine eyed him dubiously; he fought back a grin.

"Regardless, you should stop drinking. You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself."

At this he scoffed, "I am more like to embarrass myself if I do not partake."

"What logic is that?"

"It is logic in the most elementary sense, dear girl. _If_ I do not imbibe I know that within all likelihood I _will_ murder one or more of our fellow dinner guests in cold blood. Do you truly wish such a burden on your conscience, my darling Christine?" She straightened, arms crossing at her chest, gleam in her eyes harder than flint. Instantly he felt bereft of her tender yet cautious touch and was sorry the tie did not prove more difficult.

"Mayhap restraint rather than liquor should be the order of the day."

"To that statement I offer a rebuttal: first, it is no longer day; and, secondly I have more control than any man on earth." The heated insinuation brought a flush to her cheeks and a flash of hope to his heart.

"Please don't drink more, Erik; it would grieve me if you did."

Ah, but there was the damnable plea! She had played the one hand he could not beat, found the chink in his armor, the clever little chit. Before he had time to formulate a reply the moment was interrupted by the until-then forgotten third member of their party.

"Are you ready to dress, ma'am?" ventured the timid maid. Christine turned, smiling. Whether or not she was gracious for the intervention Erik couldn't say, either way it irritated him beyond the point rationality permitted. She answered in the affirmative and was quickly gone.

And, alone once more...

His fingers unconsciously tapped out a beat against his thigh, his eyes wandering about the room for want of some diversion. They alighted at last upon the cellarette in the corner. Not alone after all. Within the confines of the rosewood cabinet dwelt both a companion and diversion—a wonderful, liquid companion, brandy. Christine's previous imperative briefly stayed the hand that closed round the crystal neck but he shook it off. What she did not witness could not grieve her and, besides, he was by now too sober for comfort. Erik condoled himself with the knowledge that if she were privy to the turmoil raging within him she would have acquiesced. Quickly he downed a glass and refilled the snifter.

"Did I not instruct you to cease your drinking?"

Christine's sudden reappearance startled him more than the purloined words. Seemingly of its own volition the snifter parted from his mouth and was set down. A fine thing too, for had any brandy found its way past his lips he would have most assuredly choked. He tried to keep from staring, likewise did he attempt to keep his jaw from falling open, but fought a losing battle. Within his skull all intelligible thought fled. There was only _she_. And, she was a vision.

She was a natural wonder of the wide world, more awe-inspiring than soaring peaks, verdant valleys, or a thousand African sunsets.

That the dress was a relatively simple affair for an evening toilette—blue with thin straps rather than sleeves, cinched at the waist with a black band, and trimmed with lace at neckline and hem—was inconsequential. Erik could swear with impunity that he had never beheld such a gorgeous sight in all his life. He had always considered her beautiful, even in spite of the dirt and poorly fitting menswear. But, now... _Now_ , well, there were no adequate words. The cerulean satin flowed down the lithe curves of her figure like the seductive trickle of water over a rocky ledge; it set off the paleness of her complexion, the white gloves nearly blending with the creamy, alabaster radiance. The swell of her bosom, doubtlessly owing to some careful corset work on behalf of the maid, fairly strained against the golden lace adorning the neckline. Within her upswept curls was nestled a vibrant bloom of a matching hue.

"You look absolutely stunning." His eyes smouldered, a hypnotizing dance of blue flame. A blush crept up her face, preceding the stern expression; frown lines furrowed the smooth skin of her forehead.

"Flattery won't keep me from being cross, you know."

"Flattery is hollow and insincere, I meant every word I said. You _are_ beautiful, stunningly so."

She gazed up at him then, eyes rounded, lips slightly parted. But for the rise and fall of her chest in fleeting, little pants she stood still as a statue. The moment passed between them, crackled and wheeled with heady, impatient charge. For an ephemeral instant neither was spurred to action and continued staring dumbly at one another. This until Erik, ever the first to recover, fixed her with that leisurely lopsided grin and offered his arm.

"Come, my dear, let's to dinner! Into the den of wolves we go!"

Mayhap she had been wrong on the topic of drinking, she mused stifling her own smile and the accompanying giggle.

Like this he was almost, _well_...

—pleasant.

Without further hesitation or malice she accepted his invitation and arm-in-arm the two strode out the door and down the corridor to their destination.

 **o o o**

Dinner proved to be not entirely horrid. The stares were severely lessened from their first foray onto the ship. Most of the swell were much too engrossed in their own conversations, any odd glances he received were few and far between.

Thanks to Christine's afternoon call upon the American socialite they were seated amongst the Robichauxs, Rillieuxs, Cunninghams, and another English couple. Though the vibrant enthusiasm of the two sisters was annoying Erik remained in a good humor. Beggars could not be choosers and these familiars were a spot better than total strangers. None gaped or asked about the mask at least and that was enough for him to label the evening a success - not unpredictably his standards in this regard were quite low.

The hours afterwards found him sat in the parlor immersed in a world his own making, a world of Hugo and scotch. His usually fractious mind was for the time peaceful. He lost himself in the abrasive melody of nib on paper, though he wrote without consideration. Erik could not recount what he had penned nor did he stop to question, words simply flowed as if his pen moved of its own free will.

"What do you write in that?"

He looked up at her, his unwitting muse, the woman who set his heart aflutter and spurred his pen into a mad dash. His hand came to a halt; the seemingly sentient writing instrument paused, paying reverence to the goddess it worshipped.

"Whatever fleeting thought captures my fancy." Her smile was apprehensive; she toyed with the ribbon at the end of her plait - beautiful and endearing. Even in nightclothes she looked every bit a deity whose loveliness inspired both prose and verse. Warmth bloomed within his chest.

"Like a journal of sorts?"

"Of sorts..."

"Aren't you worried that you will ruin the text? What if you should wish to read it again?"

"There is little chance of that, my dear, I've memorized it cover-to-cover."

"The _whole_ novel?!"

"Unless cover-to-cover has an alternative meaning of which I am unaware."

Christine stared at him, mouth agape, eyes appraising. She scrutinized his face for any indication of jest and found none. Although, to assume she could decipher Erik's expressions with any degree of accuracy was laughable; at the best of times he was inscrutable and downright confusing at the worst. Furthermore, there was the matter of her ignorance on the subject. Even if he were to recite the book in its entirety she would have no way of verifying its authenticity. English _or_ French, she had never read it. However, the allure of testing him was irresistible.

"What is your favorite passage?"

"Would you like to hear it?"

"Please," She studied him for signs of duplicity and was satisfied when he closed the book and sat it upon his knee.

 _Si la misère humaine pouvait être résumée, elle l'eût été par Gwynplaine et Dea. Ils semblaient être nés chacun dans un compartiment du sépulcre ; Gwynplaine dans l'horrible, Dea dans le noir. Leurs existences étaient faites avec des ténèbres d'espèce différente, prises dans les deux côtés formidables de la vie. Ces ténèbres, Dea les avait en elle et Gwynplaine les avait sur lui. Il y avait du fantôme dans Dea et du spectre dans Gwynplaine. Dea était dans le lugubre, et Gwynplaine dans le pire. Il y avait pour Gwynplaine voyant, une possibilit poignante qui n'existait pas pour Dea aveugle, se comparer aux autres hommes. Or, dans une situation comme celle de Gwynplaine, en admettant qu'il cherchât à s'en rendre compte, se comparer, c'était ne plus se comprendre. Avoir, comme Dea, un regard vide d'où le monde est absent, c'est une suprême détresse, moindre pourtant que celle-ci: être sa propre énigme; sentir aussi quelque chose d'absent qui est soi-même; voir l'univers et ne pas se voir. Dea avait un voile, la nuit, et Gwynplaine avait un masque, sa face. Chose inexprimable, c'était avec sa propre chair que Gwynplaine était masqué. Quel était son visage, il l'ignorait. Sa figure était dans l'évanouissement. On avait mis sur lui un faux lui-même. Il avait pour face une disparition. Sa tête vivait et son visage était mort. Il ne se souvenait pas de l'avoir vu. Le genre humain, pour Dea comme pour Gwynplaine, était un fait extérieur ; ils en étaient loin; elle était seule, il était seul; l'isolement de Dea était funèbre, elle ne voyait rien; l'isolement de Gwynplaine était sinistre, il voyait tout. Pour Dea, la création ne dépassait point l'ouïe et le toucher; le réel était borné, limité, court, tout de suite perdu; elle n'avait pas d'autre infini que l'ombre. Pour Gwynplaine, vivre, c'était avoir à jamais la foule devant soi et hors de soi. Dea était la proscrite de la lumière; Gwynplaine était le banni de la vie. Certes, c'étaient là deux désespérés. Le fond de la calamité possible était touché. Ils y étaient, lui comme elle. Un observateur qui les eût vus eût senti sa rêverie s'achever en une incommensurable pitié. Que ne devaient-ils pas souffrir? Un décret de malheur pesait visiblement sur ces deux créatures humaines, et jamais la fatalité, autour de deux êtres qui n'avaient rien fait, n'avait mieux arrangé la destinée en torture et la vie en enfer._

All too soon it was over, the final words fading and dying like the last embers of a fire. To hear him read anything sent gooseflesh rippling down her back but to hear the passage read in its original French was nothing less than raw sensuality. Christine sat on the rug, legs crossed, eyes slightly hooded and posture eager; her body thrummed all over. She did not recall sitting down—a further testament to the marvellous thrall that was his voice. Nothing was said, she could say nothing, the power of speech had marooned her on an island in a sea of silence. Her voice now seemed a crass, screeching instrument by contrast.

And, the text itself...

It had been as beautiful as it was tragic. Her knowledge of French was enough that she could grasp the basic tenets, and what she was able to understand tore her heart asunder.

Was this how he saw himself, a living nightmare?

The desire to comfort broke the spell and overrode her previous doubts, Christine blurted the first thing that came to mind.

"You're not Gwynplaine, you know."

He snorted. "Of course I know that, silly girl. An everlasting laugh, imagine! Had I been thusly cursed I would have cast myself into the sea much sooner believe you me."

They shared a laugh then, hers rife with discomfiture. He must have discerned the strain for he offered to tell her another, perhaps happier, anecdote. She capitalized on his proposal, a starved dog falling upon a juicy piece of meat. Some of the ebullient light returned to her features.

"There _is_ one story I want very much to hear."

"And, which one is that?"

"The tale of you and the crocodile." His eyes shone with a strange light, she could not classify it; he at least did not seem perturbed by her request and with Erik that was something.

"I should have known as much. Where shall I begin?"

"Why in the name of the Savior were you within range of a crocodile's jaws in the first place?"

"After three years aboard _Alice Mae_ I grew weary of sailing, I was still a boy and the sea no longer slaked my lust for adventure. I settled in the Indian Colony, there I took a job hunting man-eaters for the various railways."

"Man-eaters?" she repeated with an edge of skeptic awe, "Those vicious Carnivora thirsting for human blood don't exist outside of fiction, surely."

"Oh, but they do. Man is easy prey, you see, evolution has not endowed him with the fleetness of the deer nor the armor of the rhinoceros; his senses are pitifully attuned to the world around him and he has neither fangs nor claws with which to defend himself. His only weapon is cunning and both the leopard and tiger possess that in greater abundance. Any predator may take advantage of a ripe opportunity if hunger compels him but it's those who become habituated to man-flesh—whether by age, illness, or infirmity—that become a problem."

"And was the crocodile old and sick?" A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat.

"Old, certainly. However, reptiles are not governed by preference, they are cold, unfeeling, primitive. Crocodiles will devour whatever chance lands in their watery domain, be it buffalo, monkey, or man. This particular specimen had developed a taste for the villagers inhabiting the banks of the Rehar; he took thirteen from one village alone. By this time I had cultivated somewhat of a reputation for my prowess as a hunter. I was hired by the British Army to dispatch the creature."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen on the cusp of sixteen."

Here her mouth fell open into a perfect O of astonishment. During the weeks spent in his company she had learnt many a shocking thing about him, she didn't know why she found this information to be especially surprising. It shouldn't have been. And, yet... If he had sprouted a violet beard in that moment she would have processed it better. Christine tried to remember what had been her own preoccupations at that age, already aware there was no comparison. While her nose had been buried in a neverending array of novels, he had been living the very adventures printed upon the pages. She felt the unavoidable twinge of envy despite not wishing for a second that their places had been switched.

"I was an excellent shot from a tender age. My father had seen to my education with every manner of firearm before I was in breeches; it was the most time he ever deigned to spend with me. I suppose in his mind the only object of more revulsion than a deformed son was a mollycoddle." If he noticed the amalgam of anger and disgust written on her face he gave no indication. "These were desperate times, the village was home to a number of railway workers and the army was summoned. When the efforts of the Queen's own soldiery failed they were willing to try anything—even hire a strange, masked hunter barely out of boyhood. I was a last resort."

"And?!"

"And, what?"

"Were you successful? Did you slay it, the man-eating crocodile?"

"Naturally."

" _How?_ How did you, a boy, accomplish what not even soldiers could?" By now her interest was almost rabid in its intensity. Christine could picture a young Erik dreaming up a whole manner of brilliant and terrible inventions with which to snare the monstrous reptile.

"It was not so much a question of method as it was of the _right_ bait."

At this her expression transformed into a mask of revulsion and morbid intrigue. The answer was obvious, the prospect wholly macabre, dare she ask? There was a slim chance she was utterly mistaken in her guess. Erik was no brute, no heartless cur, he would never have condemned some _one_ to be snapped up by those frightful jaws. He read her stricken countenance with an air of amusement, dispelling her fears.

"I spent weeks studying the devil, after which it became apparent that only one thing could entice him—that which he favored above all else, man. I volunteered as bait. We constructed a blind near the shore and there I sat with pistol in hand, waiting."

"YOU WILLINGLY RISKED YOUR LIFE?!"

"There was no other way. It was my best chance at landing a killing shot, besides. Crocodilians are fantastically armored creatures, incredibly difficult to kill - and, as with any large, dangerous game, to simply wound is tantamount to suicide. Crocodiles are notably savage, they will fight even in the throes of death. I put a bullet into his brain as he rushed me, however, it did not dispatch him before he was able to seize me; he died with his jaws clamped around my leg."

"What happened then?"

"A soldier and the village healer treated and bandaged my wounds, kept them as clean as was possible given the circumstances. The infection was worse than the injury itself in many ways. I suppose I was lucky to have escaped being crippled or worse. Even still, it took five months to walk unaided and nearly a year before I could stand to cover more than a few yards without excruciating pain. I stopped hunting man-eaters after that, found _other_ employment."

"May I see it again? Your scar, I mean..."

In Erik's limited experience, women were dreadfully curious creatures; Christine was an example of rather than exception to this rule. The question was innocent enough, he decided. Surely she had meant no harm in it. Had he been in a more usual state of mind he would have undoubtedly refused. But, the alcohol had lent him an affable, agreeable nature. Haltingly, against his better judgment, he rolled up his trouser leg. She eyed the ugly conglomeration of tissue with a look that was neither pity nor disgust - his inability to place it inspired a vague sense of discomfort.

"Does it still bother you?" she whispered drawing nearer.

"No."

As she examined his leg she was met with the magnitude of the situation. He had lived an awful life, a cursed life, his body a ledger recording each terrible transaction that had taken place. How many times over had he paid for the sin of his deformity? Man's cruelty ran deep indeed. Erik's genius should have changed the world, his music could have graced a thousand stages, his inventions could have enriched millions of lives, instead that brilliant mind was cast into the dirt and left to languish. And all because of the heartlessness of a vain father. The injustice of it sparked the hot flames of anger to life within her belly. A sudden urge to atone for his past suffering overtook Christine, clouding her mind, and she set her lips to the tangle of skin.

He jerked away as if slapped.

"D-Did I hurt you?"

Erik regarded her aghast. A hysterical burst of laughter emerged from his lips disguised as a cough. He was at once quite beside himself. Hurt him? _Hurt him?!_ Why in God's name would she think she had hurt him? Was she truly that pitifully naïve? Imagine believing pain had caused his entire body to lurch, that _it_ was responsible for the hunger her kiss had ignited. The images came then, visions of her kneeling before him, her curls tickling his thighs, her mouth around his—

 _Christ!_

—he needed an out and he needed it _now_.

"I think it wise to retire." He moved to rise, to flee, but she stalled him with those wide, sad eyes.

"But—"

"It has grown rather late."

"Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

"I am sure. Now, little princess, the hour for sleep is upon us." She was still sitting, still staring, the graceful column of her neck craned upwards. The scene almost triggered a new wave of indecent thoughts.

"Did it feel _g-good_ , then?"

"No more questions. It is time for bed."

"No."

"What did you say?"

"I said no, Erik. I'm not tired and I do not believe you are either."

"Enough, Christine."

"No! Please allow me this, allow me to make redress for what horrors you've endured; allow me to make you feel good."

"What?! What are you—" The remainder of whatever he meant to say was intercepted by a second kiss.

Later when the mists of impulsive want had dissipated and rationality retook its throne she would ask herself what had come over her. What madness was this? What weirdness caused this shy maiden who squirmed at the most nominal mention of topics prurient to be so bold? She knew not but embraced it greedily, setting a third kiss upon that valley of gnarled flesh and fourth on the material of his trousers. Erik drew a hard breath. Thus a pattern unfurled, a melody beautiful as it was enthralling.

 _Kiss, inhale, kiss, inhale, kiss—_

"Christine, _stop_. You've no idea the game you play."

"Do you want me to stop?" His response was limited to the clenching of his jaw, it was not a refusal. "I thought not..."

Were it really her she would have commissioned a victory arch for the look she received, the unflappable Erik Grey well and truly floored—and by her, the sheltered innocent. But, Christine Daaé it was not. It was as though she had vanished on the spot and was replaced by a more provocative imposter. One who shared her disorderly mop of dark curls and ivory skin, who had the same pert nose and too-large brown eyes, a being who was her duplicate in every way save one. This version was brazen, a seductress unbowed by the petty constraints of morality.

Not Christine dropped another kiss upon his leg as a reply. From within her haze she heard the sound of nails scraping leather. The muscle was living steel, heated by a hypocaust boiling beneath the surface of fabric and flesh, it tensed under her touch; the poseur grew drunk, bolder with power. Yet the thrill was short-lived.

There was nowhere left to go, the pretender was at a cross-roads. A choice loomed stark before her, she had to pick one: press on or retreat. She was so near everything that made him a man, could see the bulging evidence of arousal and hear his shaky, shuddering respiration at her closeness. The musk of skin and soap was strong in her nostrils as she placed her lips upon that forbidden part of him, its warmth nearly burning her. His muttered oath made her ears throb hot with blood. He ordered her to stop but his imperative was absent of its usual iron surety.

The powerful had become the powerless.

Oh, how the tables had been turned. He was completely at her mercy. If a headier drug existed she could not conceive of it. Another time her lips landed, another entreaty was uttered; she ignored it. With the next kiss the titillation waned. Her high faded, the faux Christine needed _more_. But, was she intrepid enough to take it?

She paused like a traveller before the gates of Thebes, the Sphinx's riddle a simple question of do or do not. Would she, _could_ she, dare she _do_? Decision made, she slowly undid the fastenings of his trousers. There was no turning back and even fewer regrets. Her sole lament was the dimness of the gas lamps, she wished for better light so that she might appreciate the raw masculine glory of him—her first time seeing a man. The real Christine would have been too timid to look, even the mimic let out a gasp and found her eyelids pulling shut, but only for the span of an instant - and, oh, she was glad for her mettle then. It was a terrific thing to finally behold him, no more secrets between them; the darkest recesses of her imagination had done him little justice.

So big and thick and angry!

How was this thing supposed to fit into its opposite, into her? Nature had to be flawed in her design, there was no other explanation. Christine now understood why so many wives dreaded fulfilling their marital duties, it would have to be extraordinarily painful. And, yet this afternoon the act had been spoken of with such glibness—Evelina and her friends were borderline rapturous on the subject—so maybe the mechanics were not impossible. She did have to concede that she remained curious in spite of her apprehension. Perhaps it was dependent upon the man, there were those without skill, others of middling proficiency, and some who excelled.

Which, begged the question of where _he_ fit on this spectrum.

Would he be no more adept than a rutting animal or would his natural inclination translate into this area as well? Somehow she didn't think it was the former.

Previously uttered words swirled in her head.

 _I could show you pleasure,_

Food for thought...

 _I could chart your body's every secret,_

Now she was dreadfully curious...

 _I could make you slump boneless in my arms with one hand._

What of her, could she make him slump boneless with just her hand? However, she was struck with another notion, a filthy, whorish notion. _What if—_

Her lips touched skin before the rest of her was aware she had moved. He was so very warm, the feel of him smooth and silken, delicate but strong. The sharp hiss he made sounded inhuman. Christine repeated the action for an encore; beneath her he twitched with wanting. Now she was delirious with a different feeling, the excitement of giving. An unfamiliar sensation began pooling below her navel. She wished to please him, to take him to the highest heights, what she did not know was _how_.

"Show me what to do, teach me, guide me." she implored.

He said nothing, remained silent and motionless as a stone. His eyes were squeezed shut, his grip on the chair white-knuckled, his breathing discordant. The old her would have cut short her losses and given up, her audacious twin waited a split-second before taking initiative, inexperienced as she was. It was a fine thing both versions were quick studies. Hesitantly her tongue darted out to draw along the length of him.

Not an 'object of terror' after all.

The reaction was immediate and violent, the groan he issued mildly frightening. His head fell back against the chair wing in a squeak-slide of protest; his entire form went limp except for that pulsing, raging part of him. He was, for all intents and purposes, dead—the mystery was whether it was by shock or pleasure. Erik was revived on a sharp cry, the second lick a bolt of electricity to a still heart.

"Take— Take me in your mouth," Half plea, half command, his voice a grating rasp, totally unrecognizable as his own. She complied without pause, his moans sweet music.

One hand enmeshed in her hair, the other gripped her shoulder; both were trembling. They worked in harmony to instruct her where words would have proven inadequate. Between her own legs the tingling intensified until it was practically a scream. Was he cognizant of how badly she wanted him? Could he smell the arousal radiating from her every pore? The hand upon her shoulder quaked more noticeably until it shook her whole person. Disgruntled, she stopped, her eyes snapping open, boring into his.

"What _is_ it, Erik? I thought you were enjoying—" His expression alone was enough to freeze her tongue. Gone was the disarray of a man undone, the Erik surveying her was lucid and composed. A devilish smirk twisted his lips. The look in his eyes told a thousand stories—and all of them made her want to sink into the floor.

"Having a pleasant dream, my dear?"

—had he said _dream_?

Perhaps he was playing a trick on her. Perhaps— But, all signs pointed to his telling the truth, within her limbs was the sharp ache of being compressed too long in one position and beneath her mouth the pence-size wet spot on the fabric was still warm. She had been on the sofa for a while contrary to what she wanted to believe.

Poor, young maiden...

No thoughts in her head but those of sin.

Good God, she should think of employing a bawd to manage her!

And, for the third time in a matter of hours Christine Daaé was met with mortification of the highest order.

That night she went to bed alone, she dared not ask him to join her. Sleep proved elusive, her eyelids closing only to shoot open immediately as if prodded by a hot iron. Maybe it was that her previous nap had refreshed her. Or, in a much more likely explanation, it was the fear of more dreams that acted antagonist to slumber.

In the opposite bed Erik slept on in blissful ignorance. What would be his reaction were he to learn of the depravity lurking beneath her innocent halo of curls? Christine pondered. She stared in his direction, the rhythmic ebb and flow of breath sending her heart into a frenzy. Oh, but how badly she wanted him. Under covers of down and darkness she blushed furiously and prayed the advent of a new day would release her from the prison of unholy thoughts.

* * *

 **See, Erik isn't the only one who has a filthy mind. ;)**

 **Any bets on how this is going to turn out? Haha.**

 **A/N: For anyone wondering what Erik has been writing in that little book of his, all will be revealed next chapter. I'd say something like it's not what you would expect, but I'm fairly sure it is _exactly_ what you guys are expecting.**

 ***Translation of the French passage is below:**

 **If human misery could be summed up, it might have been summed up in Gwynplaine and Dea. Each seemed born in a compartment of the sepulchre; Gwynplaine in the horrible, Dea in the darkness. Their existences were shadowed by two different kinds of darkness, taken from the two formidable sides of night. Dea had that shadow in her, Gwynplaine had it on him. There was a phantom in Dea, a spectre in Gwynplaine. Dea was sunk in the mournful, Gwynplaine in something worse. There was for Gwynplaine, who could see, a heartrending possibility that existed not for Dea, who was blind; he could compare himself with other men. Now, in a situation such as that of Gwynplaine, admitting that he should seek to examine it, to compare himself with others was to understand himself no more. To have, like Dea, empty sight from which the world is absent, is a supreme distress, yet less than to be an enigma to oneself; to feel that something is wanting here as well, and that something, oneself; to see the universe and not to see oneself. Dea had a veil over her, the night; Gwynplaine a mask, his face. Inexpressible fact, it was by his own flesh that Gwynplaine was masked! What his visage had been, he knew not. His face had vanished. They had affixed to him a false self. He had for a face, a disappearance. His head lived, his face was dead. He never remembered to have seen it. Mankind was for Gwynplaine, as for Dea, an exterior fact. It was far-off. She was alone, he was alone. The isolation of Dea was funereal, she saw nothing; that of Gwynplaine sinister, he saw all things. For Dea creation never passed the bounds of touch and hearing; reality was bounded, limited, short, immediately lost. Nothing was infinite to her but darkness. For Gwynplaine to live was to have the crowd for ever before him and outside him. Dea was the proscribed from light, Gwynplaine the banned of life. They were beyond the pale of hope, and had reached the depth of possible calamity; they had sunk into it, both of them. An observer who had watched them would have felt his reverie melt into immeasurable pity. What must they not have suffered! The decree of misfortune weighed visibly on these human creatures, and never had fate encompassed two beings who had done nothing to deserve it, and more clearly turned destiny into torture, and life into hell.**

 ***The full story of Erik's encounter with the crocodile will appear in a later chapter. Get ready for a flashback!**


End file.
